Hope Springs Eternal
by The Sound and the Fury
Summary: AH. Carlisle's new patient, Bella, has been in foster care since her father died. His blended family has plenty of love to share, if Bella could only accept it. But someone else wants the Hale twins. Will they save one child only to lose two others?
1. Somebody's Going to Emergency

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. "Downy flake" quote courtesy of Robert Frost, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." Chapter title from "New York Minute" by Don Henley.

This story is available for download in .epub or .mobi at soundfurious dot livejournal dot com.

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**Hope Springs Eternal**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o  
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_Hope springs eternal in the human breast;  
Man never is, but always to be blest:  
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,  
Rests and expatiates in a life to come._

- Alexander Pope, _An Essay on Man, Epistle I__,_ 1733

The heating unit was old, one of those freestanding metal types that are covered in flaky white paint nine times out of ten. Some genius had decided it would be best situated right under the window. Even on the highest setting, it wasn't powerful enough to do much more than wheeze consumptively, offering a perfunctory cloud of warm air that didn't extend more than a foot or two into the room.

James was in the shower, and the bed was quickly growing cold without him, so cold that I finally wrapped myself up in the blanket like a mummy and tiptoed over to the vinyl-padded chair next to the heater. But being near the window meant that I was sitting smack in the middle of a draft, which often overpowered the pitiful puffs of warm. I curled up as tightly as I could and let the scratchy fabric ride up over my chin to cover my mouth and nose.

I traced my finger gently along the frost crystals that turned the glass into a glittering white forest. It was snowing. Through the pattern of icy swirls and branches that were somehow clear and opaque at the same time, I could see the occasional snowflake brush the glass before falling like a feather to the ground below. The shower wasn't running anymore, and without the rattling pipes, the room was so quiet I could almost hear the flakes hitting the window.

_The only other sound's the sweep . . . of easy wind and downy flake._

James stepped out of the tiny bathroom, shirtless and still damp from his shower, but already wearing his faded jeans and halfway through another cigarette. It hurt when he'd spent four dollars on the pack of them but wouldn't let me have the last sandwich.

"I'm taking your jacket, 'kay? It's getting cold as a librarian's bed outside," James told me, reaching for the huge parka I'd been wearing for three winters now. I guess I was supposed to grow into it, though I don't think anyone grows much after sixteen.

"What about me? Who's going to warm me up?" I answered, trying to sound playful. It bothered me, these midnight runs for beer or cigarettes while I sat alone in the motel, checking the door every five minutes and wondering what I'd do next morning if James never came back at all. It was only because he knew the owner that we were able to stay here in the first place, because God knows neither of us had any money left.

"You know I don't like being nagged, babe." He was smiling, but his voice was cold as the window glass under my hand. "I thought we understood each other. The whole point of coming here was to get away from the constant nagging. If I wanted to listen to it, I'd go back to my stepmother. At least that woman can cook." He slipped into his sneakers without bothering to tie them or pull up the backs over his heels.

"Do you love me?" I thought I said the words out loud, but perhaps they were only in my head. They must have been, because James didn't answer, only stubbed out his cigarette in the glass ashtray and slipped a lighter into his shirt pocket. "I'll be back later," he told me, picking up the truck keys and my parka. "Don't wait up."

"Where are you going?" It felt better to be saying something, just so I could hear his voice responding to me. I hardly needed to ask. Jack Spatz's, Murphy's, who even cared which one? And he'd come home smelling like beer and cigarettes and pass out next to me on the bed, not holding me or anything, and he'd snore like a freight train, and I'd feel more alone being with him than I ever did when I was by myself.

"Out." The door slammed, and there was a muffled _click_ as the lock engaged. A few stray snowflakes had snuck in and now fell against the carpet, melting so quickly it was hard to believe they'd ever been there in the first place.

I felt my nose itching and willed the tears away as I berated myself for needing reassurance — _nagging,_ as James would say. I pulled the scratchy blanket tighter, feeling the cold air seeping through anyways. The door had been open just long enough to render the heater's paltry progress worthless. My feet were numb.

_Do you love me? _It had been a stupid question. Of course he loved me, or he wouldn't _be_ with me. He could have asked Heidi to come with him when he left Seattle, or just moved on alone. But it was to _me_ that he confided the problem with Laurent. It was _me_ that he'd asked for help in the first place, though it made him ashamed to do so.

"You know I don't like to ask for money, Bells," he'd said, staring straight ahead out the windshield as his cigarette glowed in the darkness. "A man doesn't like to admit he can't handle his own affairs. But I think you and me are in this for the long haul, and I can't get us started if I have to leave town over that cheap dime-store hood."

It made me feel important, and I was thrilled to think that James was shaping a future in his mind that included me. So I gave it to him. A hundred and sixty of my own, that I'd put away from babysitting, and ninety dollars from Arthur Nylund's secret stash in the sideboard. He gave me that smile of his, the one that other girls find creepy because they don't know him like I do. And that night he made love to me gently, not fast and brutal like the other times.

Then it all fell apart. Laurent said he'd never gotten the payment, though James swore up and down he'd left it with Randall at the bar. And Arthur noticed the missing money from the sideboard and immediately blamed me for it. And I got kicked out. Eleven o'clock at night, and he didn't even give me time to do more than slip my shoes on before I was staring at the heavy oak front door inches from my nose, and my coat and everything I owned in the world — which, not counting my textbooks, could fit in a medium-sized duffel bag with room to spare — still inside the warm house, where the lit Christmas tree mocked me from a window I was now permanently on the wrong side of.

James wasn't a foster child, like I was, but his stepmother absolutely hated his guts. And his father was so head-over-heels in love with her that James's needs took a very distant backseat. Everybody treated him that way, and Laurent's little game was just further evidence that life wasn't going to give him a break anytime soon. I was the only one he could trust. So James said, "Apparently, this town's not liking either of us, baby. Let's you and me show them our back tires."

My stomach growled. We only had a few dollars left at this point, and James always held onto the cash. We were both going to get jobs, of course, but it being right after Christmas, hardly any of the stores were even open. It was unlikely there'd be anything in Forks even when business started up again, but we could always commute to Port Angeles. Obviously, gas money would be a problem . . . but it was only because of James being owed a favor by the motel owner that we weren't sleeping in his truck.

I got up reluctantly, shedding my little cocoon. Shedding my bedding, as it were. I found my clothes and dressed, quickly so as to get warm, my fingers numb as they did up the buttons on my shirt. Then I went through the pockets of my backpack, running my fingers down into the creases, wincing when my fingernails caught on the fabric. My efforts turned up sixty cents, and in the pocket of James's folded khakis I found a dollar bill, worn out from going through the wash but still perfectly legible. That would be enough to get something from the vending machine and ease my cramping stomach.

The night I got tossed out, I ran to James's, slipping and falling several times on the wet sidewalks until I arrived a sopping, frozen mess at his house. James had a little room in the finished basement, and I'd tapped at his window until he'd opened it and helped me slide in.

When the Nylunds left for work the next day, James drove us over and broke one of the glass panes in the back door so he could unlock the deadbolt, as my key was still in my jacket pocket in the foyer. Together we loaded up my backpack (minus my textbooks, which I left stacked on my desk) with my few clothes and personal things, plus some food from the pantry and the two hundred dollars in the fake soup can in the basement. I'm not saying a burglar would be fooling around with the canned goods in the first place, but seriously, you'd have to be blind not to notice that thing. Since I was always the one to put the groceries away, I knew what the game was even if I'd never foreseen eventually turning burglar myself.

As I pocketed the key card to the room and bent to lace up my sneakers, I suddenly wondered what my dad would have thought of James. I was too young to be interested in boys when he was killed, but I had a nagging feeling that Charlie would have taken one look at James and shown him the door. But then again . . . if Charlie hadn't died, I'd never have been living in Seattle in the first place, and very likely wouldn't have ever met James. And maybe if Charlie'd been around to help me pick, I could have found someone who'd make sure I had enough to eat before he spent money on tobacco.

But there was no one around to care what I did now. I could cry all I wanted over my dad dying, but no one cared about that, either. You got one mother and one father, and if your mother got sick of you and your father got killed, that was it. No second chances. Just a bunch of motel rooms that the state paid for and called foster homes, without checking to see if the motel skimped on the meals and locked you out halfway through the month but kept collecting the rent. Over and over again, until you turned eighteen and became your own problem instead of theirs, and no sense crying when there are thousands just like you and plenty of children starving across the world on top of that.

* * *

"Jesus H. _Christ._"

I cracked one eye open, but the light was too bright, and it only made my head throb. I wished they hadn't woken me.

"Isabella? Isabella, can you hear me?"

Who ever called me Isabella? Even my caseworker didn't, though that's how I get listed on all the files. Maybe I was dead, and that was why there was so much light, and why I was getting addressed formally as 'Isabella' . . . except there shouldn't be so much pain. How can you feel pain if you're dead? I opened my mouth to correct him, to tell him that it was 'Bella,' but no matter how I tried, I couldn't make my heavy lips get out of the way.

"There's so much _blood._ How is her heart still beating?"

Blood, yes. The scent was all around me, the horrid odor that smelled the way pennies tasted when I put them in my mouth as a kid, before Charlie told me I'd die from the germs. It _tasted_ like pennies, too, or like oysters, those times I'd had to suck on cuts or mosquito bites to make them stop bleeding after I'd picked the scabs again. I thought it was horrible then, but the taste was worse when James would hit me in the mouth, because then the inside of my cheek was all cut and I could feel the raw skin against my tongue as the blood started to flow into my throat.

Then there were hands on me, on my head, and I cringed away from them, thinking he had come back already from Murphy's and was going to hurt me some more. But the hands were gentle, and the voice even more so, and the face that suddenly blocked out the bright light so it shone around his head like a halo had to be God. No one else could look so kind and so beautiful and make the pain seem suddenly less important.

"Not yet, sweetheart," he told me softly, smiling as he tapped a syringe, its needle glinting menacingly in the brightness. I cringed in anticipation of the sharpness piercing my skin, but the sting never came. Perhaps I just couldn't feel it over the ferocious waves of agony that were threatening to split my body in half. But as the hours passed by, or perhaps only seconds, I found that I was suddenly becoming very tired. The man's

_(God's)_

kind face began to blur. "It's just something to make you relax," I heard. "We're going to fix you up. You can sleep if you want to."

His one hand was up near my throat, the other raised so he could check his watch. Probably he had somewhere to be, and I was holding him back. My eyes pricked with tears at the thought that he might be impatient with me. But the hand on my neck was gentle, too, and his thumb was softly feathering against my chin. After a moment, his eyes moved from the watch back to my face, and he smiled again.

"Sleep," he chided.

I slept.


	2. In a New York Minute

**Carlisle**

Long after we'd finished setting her leg, taping her ribs, and stitching up the lacerations that seemed oddly spaced out for an accidental fall, I continued to stand behind the glass that separated the ICU and watch her sleep. In a small town like Forks, there weren't many cases like this. I hadn't seen anything like it since we'd left Anchorage.

The young girl's hair was limp and dull, matted with blood, but I knew it would be a lush, rich mahogany when washed if she weren't so thin and sickly. Her skin was as pale as the bleached hospital sheets, and the dark circles under her eyes made her look especially fragile. Her appearance brought to mind old descriptions of consumption victims — minus the hectic flush, of course. Before medical experts discovered the cause of the disease, appropriately renamed it 'tuberculosis,' and developed treatments, those with consumption were often superstitiously believed to be vampires.

Her eyes, for the brief few moments she'd been awake in Emergency, had looked so dead and sad that it made my heart ache. They were the exact same shade of warm brown as Alice's. But while my daughter's eyes glittered with light and laughter, this girl's held no spark of life at all. How could someone so young have given up hope so completely? Perhaps, when she awoke and explained how she'd come to be injured, I would understand. And then . . . I'd wish I had left well enough alone.

"Fell down two flights of stairs and smashed into a glass door, according to the EMTs." Dr. Jared Snow's voice made me jump; I'd been so lost in thought that I hadn't heard him come up behind me. I didn't turn, instead watching his dark reflection in the glass. "You think she bled a lot on the table? They told me that corridor's worse than in _The Shining_. Miracle she's even alive," he finished, sounding awed.

"Who is she?" I asked. "She looks my kids' age, but I've never seen her around."

"We don't know," he replied, shrugging. "She was found unconscious in that hallway, no wallet, just a key card to the room in her pocket. The clerk didn't remember seeing her, which probably means she's underage and had a boyfriend sign for the room. I told the orderly to call the investigators, tell them about the key card. They can check which unit it's coded for and go from there."

"Isabella," I murmured.

"What?"

"You called her 'Isabella' in the ER," I reminded him, louder, finally turning around so we faced each other.

"Oh, that." Jared waved his hand impatiently. "Well, when she came in, there was a necklace — one of those cheap things you get off a rack in a Hallmark store, wire bent into the shape of a name. That's how we knew. It's gone now; the orderly took it with the rest of her things." He laughed humorlessly. "The jeans we had to cut off, that is, and the flannel shirt that was absolutely soaked in her blood . . . oh, and the hair tie. Don't forget the hair tie." Jared checked his watch. "Well, time to go home and give the wife her checkup," he said, clapping me on the back. It was a gesture that always irritated me — made me feel like a twenty-five-year-old intern in my first week of shadowing.

I stared after Jared as he strode purposefully away in the direction of his office, but he might have been one of those transcendent insomniacs in that Stephen King book for all I actually saw of him. My mind was back in IC with the pale waif who looked as though she'd missed all three of the sunny days we'd had this winter, and a good number of meals besides.

Glancing back through the window, I watched the girl's — Isabella's? — heartbeat on the monitor. She looked so tiny; the blanket barely registered the lump of her body underneath, and her face was so pale that if it weren't for her dark hair pooling on the pillow, a quick glance might have left me thinking that the bed was empty.

Like Jared, I was free to leave now if I chose; my actual shift wouldn't begin for a couple of hours. But it suddenly seemed very important that I retrieve the 'Isabella' necklace he'd spoken of. I didn't know why I wanted it, or what to do with it once I had it, but something made it imperative that I connect with this girl in any way possible.

In larger facilities, like those I had worked at in Anchorage and Chicago, patients' belongings were immediately transferred to a plastic bag and labeled before accompanying their owner to a room, where the bag was stored either in the drawer of the night table or a locker, if the room had one. Forks Community Hospital was smaller and less formal, usually having no need for such measures, particularly with small items. Considering her torn clothes had probably been thrown away, I was fairly certain Isabella's necklace would have made its way to the nurses' station for safekeeping, at least until she woke up.

I turned rather reluctantly from the window and headed over to where Annemarie Yorkie, the sole nurse on duty, sat munching on popcorn from a Pop Secret bag as she rapidly filled in notes on a patient's chart. It never ceases to amaze me just how much work nurses can squeeze into the space of a shift. They never have time to stare pointlessly at sleeping patients, that much is certain. Annemarie looked up and smiled pleasantly as I came over. I like her very much; not only is she a wonderful nurse, but she's happily married and has never asked me if I am, too.

I returned her smile and leaned forward casually over the raised portion of the desk. "Jared said the Jane Doe in Emergency had a necklace," I said. "I'd like to give it back to her when she wakes up. I figure it'll break the ice if I act like I'm just coming in to return her property."

"Of course, Dr. Cullen." She rolled her chair back a little ways and pulled open the wide drawer just under her writing surface, rummaging through the tangle of pens, ID badges, rubber bands, and the ends of rolls of gauze and tape. "Here, this must be it." Annemarie didn't relinquish the little plastic bag right away. Instead, she closed the drawer and leaned her elbows on the desk, fingering the necklace through the plastic. "Isabella," she murmured, tracing the thin, gold-colored wire. "Pretty name . . ." Suddenly, she gasped. "Oh, it couldn't be!"

"Ah, couldn't be what?"

Annemarie looked up at me in disbelief. "The old Deputy Chief of Police had a daughter named Isabella. My Eric was in her class." She stood up, practically turning over her chair in her haste, and scooted past me to the window I'd just been looking through. She stood with her back to me for a long moment, and when she turned around, her face had blanched almost as white as Isabella's.

"It's her," she said tearfully. "It's been a few years, but that _must_ be her. Isabella Swan. She always wanted to be called 'Bella.'" She came back over to the station and sat down heavily. "I haven't seen Bella in years; they took her away to one of the larger cities, like Seattle or Olympia."

"Someone needs to tell the police, then," I replied, a little taken aback by this further proof of what a small town Forks really was. "Her identity, that is." I had, of course, heard many times about Charlie Swan. Last year, when the Chief of Police, Steve Gorski, had retired, everyone said Charlie would have been next in line had he not passed away back in '96. His name was always spoken with a certain amount of reverence, as though he had been a particular hero — or martyr — in his own time.

"I'll call myself, as soon as my shift's over," Annemarie promised. "My husband's on duty tonight. Actually . . ." She checked her watch. "I'm off at seven. I'll call him then." Her eyes sparkled with tears when she looked at me again. "Charlie Swan used to come over our house all the time, and our kids would play together. She was such a sweet little girl. It was horrible, what happened."

"Of course." Not that I knew how Swan had met his end, but anything that evoked such grief from his friends and resulted (however indirectly) in the current state of his young daughter certainly _was_ horrible. "Does she . . . is there a relative we should be calling? Her . . . mother, perhaps?"

Annemarie's face went dark at the mention of Isabella's mother. "Renee left Forks when Bella was four," she said shortly. "She hasn't been back since."

"I see."

She sighed. "When Charlie died, Renee was living in Florida with her new husband," she told me, as though she felt I needed to understand the situation but was reluctant to air someone else's dirty laundry for all that. "She didn't want anything to do with her daughter. Bella was placed in foster care at the time, and that's why she had to leave town; there weren't any open homes here. Dan and I would have gotten the certification so we could take her, but his mother was still alive then, bedridden and living with us, so . . ." I nodded understandingly. "I'll tell Dan he needs to contact Social Services as well," she finished, gulping down the last of a cup of coffee as she scribbled notes on a scrap of paper. "I can't even imagine what brought her back to Forks — to the _hospital._" Her eyes narrowed. "If whomever she was staying with had anything to do with this . . ."

That, unfortunately, had been the first conclusion my mind had jumped to the moment I heard those magic words: foster care. It was unfair of me, of course; most of those parents are truly caring individuals that are doing the absolute best they can. But Esme and I had seen too many products of that minority that seemed to deliberately do their worst. And Isabella's injuries just didn't fit the bill for someone who'd stumbled on their way downstairs, even ramming into a glass door at the bottom as Jared Snow claimed. The dark red marks on her face were obviously bruises in their early stages . . . but the yellow-green ones on her arms and legs screamed of weeks, if not months, of physical abuse. Yes, Isabella could very well turn out to be one of those women who 'falls a lot' or 'studies gymnastics,' but then again, money might just grow on trees and Hell could be a frozen wasteland, at that.

I thought of something. "I can't imagine why she'd be in a motel, though, and that's where the ambulance was summoned," I said slowly. That really was a mystery — unless Jared's theory about a boyfriend having gotten them a room was correct. But Isabella hardly looked like the type to be running around wild with random boys, shacking up in cheap motels three and a half hours from the closest city she could possibly be living in. I wasn't sure what that type _did_ look like . . . I just felt like I'd know if I saw one. Kids who ran away from their homes didn't try to hide in a fishbowl like Forks, either. Something was off about all this, and it was going to nag at me until Isabella decided to —

" — wake up?"

"Pardon?" I had been so deep in thought that I missed the first part of Annemarie's question.

"I said, when do you think she might wake up?" she repeated.

"Hard to say," I answered slowly. "We only gave her a mild sedative to help with the pain of having her leg set, but it shouldn't have knocked her right out like it did. Any sleeping she's doing at this point has got to be due to stress and fatigue. So, basically, just whenever she's ready."

Annemarie was staring down the hall at the ICU again, fiddling with the thin gold chain she always wore, a mother's pendant with only a lone peridot for her lone son. "I'd like to be here when she wakes up," she said thoughtfully. "She might remember me, or at least I'm sure she will once I remind her. It would make everything a little less scary."

My heart once again warmed toward this kind woman. True, her concern for Isabella was a little more personal than most cases, but this mothering behavior towards our young patients was not atypical. Annemarie was very smart, and I feel that she could easily have become a doctor herself . . . yet I tend to wonder if it isn't better this way. Doctors don't have quite the same opportunity for nurturing that nurses do. It's hard to pinpoint the reason (except in those cases where the doctor in question is obviously just an arrogant asshole), but somehow I can't picture Nurse Yorkie as _Doctor_ Yorkie without also wiping that kind smile off her face and turning her gentle, melodious voice harsh and commanding.

I checked my watch. Almost six-thirty. Normally, my shift was days, eight-thirty to about six, but I'd been paged around three-thirty when Bella was on her way to the hospital. "Look, I'm going to run home so I can eat breakfast with my family, and then I'll be back at eight-thirty like normal," I told Annemarie. "If you decide to stay, I'll sign off on the overtime."

She gave me a grateful look. "That's sweet of you, Doctor. I think I will stay, at least until you get back. In the meantime, I can call my husband . . . You will tell her that I'm here? That I work here, that is? If she doesn't wake up until later?"

"Of course."

"Well, tell everyone at home I said hello." Annemarie was tilting the patient chart she'd been working on before, ready to resume writing.

"That I will, also." And before I could be distracted by anything else, I practically ran towards the parking lot, thankful that I'd slipped my keys into my pocket when I'd changed after treating Isabella. I was anxious to get home and make sure my family was safe. There was no reason for them _not _to be — I'd only been gone a few hours, and like I've said, even a case like this was rare in Forks. My sons and daughters were, at this hour, most likely safe and sound in their beds. But still, I wouldn't feel at ease until I could see that with my own eyes.

Isabella — no, _Bella_ — Swan had proved for me that in a New York minute, everything can change.

* * *

I walked into the kitchen at home just as Esme was emptying a steaming pile of skillet potatoes into a huge serving dish. Since winter vacation still wasn't over, Alice was the only one at the table; the others would probably have to be dragged out of bed, but at least they were _in_ their beds, safe and healthy. Just as I had promised myself on the way here, I had checked on each of them in turn before returning downstairs, where the food smells had been summoning me peremptorily since I stepped out of my car.

I gave my wife her kiss and returned my daughter's squeeze as I walked by her chair on the way to my own. "What was the emergency, hon?" Esme asked, setting a huge plate of eggs and bacon in front of me the moment I sat down.

My mouth was practically leaking saliva out the corners as I answered, "A young girl fell down a flight of steps. Broken leg." Too hungry to explain any further, I piled my fork with way too much food for one mouthful and shoved the whole thing in, closing my eyes in ecstasy. My wife's cooking is second only to her lovemaking, and that a very _close_ second.

"Poor little thing," Esme murmured, but didn't probe any further. As a doctor's wife, she knew I had to be careful what information I shared about patients. What I'd said already could possibly get me in trouble, under the right circumstances. Of course, in a town like Forks, it isn't hard to guess who's been hospitalized; just ask your kids who was absent from school today, or wait to see which mail carrier or waitress or garbage collector has been mysteriously replaced by a substitute.

"How young?" Alice wanted to know. She sat cross-legged on her chair, still so much shorter than me sitting down that you almost wanted to give her a booster seat just to facilitate conversation. "Is her mom or dad there with her?"

I smiled and ruffled her hair as I finished chewing. "About your age, baby. No, her family is . . . unavailable. No more questions, okay?"

"Okay. But you'd better bring her some books, Daddy," Alice instructed me. She wiped her mouth with her napkin and pushed back her chair. "Especially if she's all alone. I'll put some in a bag for you."

"That's a good idea, sweetheart. But you might as well finish your food; I don't have to leave until a little after eight."

"Oh, _this_ little piggy was shoveling it in long before you came home," Esme informed me, giving Alice a teasing nudge.

"I'm a growing girl!" Alice exclaimed indignantly.

"You're not growing very _fast_, it would seem," Esme retorted.

"That's why I need food!"

I rolled my eyes at the good-natured bickering between my wife and daughter as I worked on cleaning my plate. All was truly right with the world — or with _my_ world, at least. My kids were safe, and they were all such _good_ kids; none of my boys would hurt a woman the way Isabella Swan had been hurt. Esme and I shared a love so intense that sometimes I literally had trouble catching my breath around her. We loved our jobs and our kids and each other, and after all, what else was there?

Yet all the while, the thought kept nagging at me that everything _wasn't_ all right. That one of my kids was hurt and scared and desperate, crying out for my help even as I scarfed down Esme's eggs and potatoes. Every bite I took made me feel as if I were Nero, fiddling away while my own personal Rome burned around me. I had just _checked_ on all of them, for heaven's sake . . . but the feeling still wouldn't leave me alone.

I swallowed the last crumbs and wiped my mouth with a napkin; my chair scraped the floor as I pushed it back. Esme stopped talking to Alice long enough to ask, "Aren't you having any more, sweetie?"

I smiled and kissed her again as I stood up, knowing that I probably tasted like salt and bacon grease this time. "I'm going to take a quick shower before I leave," I explained, not wanting to alarm her with my fears, which were most likely unfounded, in any case.

"I'll get the books ready," Alice announced, scrambling down from her chair and skipping blithely out of the kitchen.

"And I'll pack your lunch," Esme murmured, moving closer so she could nuzzle my neck. "Plus something for a little mid-morning snack."

I wrapped my arms around my wife and squeezed her so tightly that she gasped, burying my face in her soft, silky hair. It only took a moment for her to recover and return my embrace, and I found that I just couldn't let go. I was _afraid_ to let go. There's some old song that says you have to hang onto the ones you love tooth and nail, and that's all I could think about as I held Esme in a death grip and continued to fret over my sleeping children.

I'd check on them again before I showered. No harm in being careful.

* * *

Isabella, as if out of spite, awakened about ten minutes after Annemarie Yorkie left for home, and Nurse Javensen let me know right away (as I'd specifically requested). As soon as I had finished with my latest case, I made a point of peeking in on her. Isabella, who had been staring listlessly up at the IV bag hanging next to her bed, glanced over at me apprehensively as I entered the room.

"Miss Swan," I intoned gravely, my expression one of mock sternness.

Her eyes widened in shock, and a blush quickly crept over her face. "Yes, I'm afraid the game is up," I informed her, shaking my head sorrowfully. Isabella looked so miserable, though, that I quickly dropped the façade in favor of a conspiratorial grin. "It's all right, honey. One of the nurses recognized you. Nurse Yorkie? She said you were friends with her son, Eric."

Her eyes flickered, then went dead again. "I was," Isabella replied. Her voice, fitting with her appearance perfectly, was very soft and timid. "I haven't seen them in years."

"Well, she'll be in to see you, I'm sure, on tonight's shift. I'm Dr. Cullen."

"Hi," she answered meekly, playing with a strand of hair. "Um . . . do you know what's going to happen to me now?"

Her blunt question took me by surprise, and I hesitated, both because I was unsure of exactly what _would_ happen and because I was fairly certain that whatever it was wouldn't be very pleasant. "That would depend, I imagine, on what's already happened," I said slowly. "Maybe if I know why you're here, I can offer a better guess. I . . . I hope this won't upset you, hon, but Nurse Yorkie told me about your situation, or at least what she knows about it."

Isabella ducked her head as if ashamed, and I quickly moved to her side so I could stroke her hair. "It's all right, hon," I said in what I hoped was a soothing voice, fingering her brittle tresses that hadn't yet been washed clean of her blood. "None of what happened back then was your fault. But what I'm still unsure of is why you were in a motel in Forks when you're supposed to be in a foster home in Seattle." Seattle was most likely, though Annemarie hadn't been sure. I figured I had nothing to lose by taking a shot in the dark there.

A long few moments passed wherein she never so much as looked up, only let me stroke her poor head gently and occasionally rub her back as well. Obviously, she wasn't going to volunteer anything. If I wanted to help her — and it was very important to me that I understand what had happened so I could have some idea of what might happen _next _— I'd have to give Isabella a little nudge.

"So, Isabella . . ."

"Just 'Bella,'" she whispered.

"Well, Bella, looks like you've taken quite a spill," I probed her gently. "You want to tell me about it?"

Bella didn't answer. She plucked nervously at her blanket instead. "I can't help you if you're not honest with me," I told her.

"Um, well, I just don't remember much," she hedged, looking at me imploringly.

I raised an eyebrow, gazing at Bella steadily without saying a word. She began to squirm under my scrutiny, and still I stared, letting the silence hang heavily between us. It's a tactic that seems to work pretty well whenever one of my kids is reluctant to share information, and I had a feeling Bella would prove to be no different in her reaction to it.

"I fell down the stairs at the motel," she finally said, with the there-are-you-_satisfied?_ attitude that I'm used to from Rosalie — but with a very un-Rose-like catch in her voice that told me she was very close to crying.

"Thank you, Bella. Now, about that motel. You're not eighteen yet," I said, perching on the bed next to her — the side with her good leg, naturally. "So . . . you were with a boyfriend?" She stared down at her hands for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "You left your home to be with him?" Another nod. "And . . . I'm guessing he's also the reason you're here right now." A much longer pause this time, but finally Bella nodded once more.

"Well, you'll need to explain what happened to a police officer," I said, trying not to betray how angry I was feeling. As it turned out, my instinctive suspicions about her foster parents were unfounded, but now my hands itched to wrap themselves around the throat of this 'boyfriend.' "Would you . . . I'll be here with you when that happens."

I had been about to ask Bella if she wanted me there while she was questioned, but I knew already what her response would be. Whether due to a fierce independent streak or because she was afraid to inconvenience me, Bella would refuse in favor of facing the ordeal alone. I could not leave her to relive her 'accident' without emotional support, just as I would never allow Rosalie or Alice to be interrogated without either Esme or me present.

True to form, Bella began to protest. "No, that's all right, Dr. Cullen." Her eyes told a different story. _Would you?_ they asked me, hopeful and suspicious at the same time. _Or are you just being polite?_

"Actually, it's against the rules for a minor to be questioned alone," I fibbed, not at all sure what the rules were regarding that. But I wasn't above lying to protect my own kids, and somehow I felt the same parental instinct towards Bella. "Aside from which, as your doctor, I need to monitor your stress level. I'd rather you had more time to regain your strength, but the sooner we get the facts, the sooner your . . . male friend . . . is stopped before he can hurt someone else."

I hoped my subtle ploy would work. Bella, like most battered women, would probably be reluctant to say anything that might get her boyfriend in trouble. But to let her know that silence would only result in another woman being hurt . . . well, that often changed things. Not always . . . but it didn't hurt to try.

I stood up and tucked Bella's chart back into place. "Nurse Yorkie said before that she was going to call her husband," I told her. "I don't know if he'll be the one they send or not, but if _any_ policeman shows up and I'm not here, buzz the nurse and ask her to fetch me. In the meantime, get as much sleep as you can, okay?"

"Okay," Bella said softly. "Thank you, Dr. Cullen."

I smiled as I turned off the overhead fluorescents. "Sleep well, Bella," I answered, stepping out into the hall.

I couldn't give Bella the standard response, "You're welcome," because I wasn't entirely certain what I'd done to deserve her thanks.


	3. He Said, She Said

**Carlisle**

It was three hours before Detective Yorkie showed up, and in the meantime I was able to finish my morning rounds and treat a badly infected burn. I peeked into Bella's room every chance I got — thankfully, she was sleeping soundly by the time an hour had passed.

Not to belabor the point, but one of the main reasons Esme and I had for moving our family to a hamlet like Forks was to give our children a chance to grow up away from the crime and chaos which plagues the larger cities. Sometimes we wonder if perhaps a small town is actually worse, given our circumstances. I'm not suggesting that everyone born in a place where the population will probably never come within shouting distance of 5,000 is stupid and bigoted by default, but small town translates to small _mind _often enough to send one or more of our kids home crying a couple of times a month.

Still, a sizable chunk of life is about making choices, and the rest of it is spent living with them. I'm still of the opinion that we managed to pick the lesser of the two evils. Alice and her brothers never come home with stories of drug deals in the hallways at school, or lockers broken into, or even too many complaints about their teachers. Neither do Rose and Jasper, but then again, they don't share much of anything with us, so no news isn't necessarily good news when it's coming from that quarter.

For my part, I don't find myself treating gunshot wounds (except for one hunting accident last year) or rape victims (whose deepest cuts are the ones I can't see to stitch up). Bella's had actually been the worst case I'd seen thus far, both in terms of her actual injuries and the disturbing reason behind them. In big cities, police officers visit the hospital regularly. Here, the only time I'd met one in any professional capacity was when Deputy Steve Greene sliced his hand open on the sharp edge of one of those ingenious hard-plastic 'clamshell' packages. Merry Christmas from Norelco.

So, despite never having met the dark-haired officer who was standing awkwardly in the waiting room, looking completely out of place among the wooden boxes of kids' toys and end tables stacked with last year's magazines, I knew he could only be there for one reason. And something about his expression, anxious and hopeful at the same time, told me that they had indeed sent Dan Yorkie.

I waved to let him know I was aware of his presence, held up one finger to indicate I'd be over in just a moment, then continued on my way to the exam room. One tetanus shot later, my ten-year-old burn victim was on his way, his harried mother thanking me profusely while assuring the little tornado that yes, ice cream was the perfect way to cool down after a burn and they would certainly pick some up on the way home.

It made me very happy to see how sweetly the two interacted. Esme and I know very well how stressful it is to keep up with energetic young kids, and how easy it can become to lose one's temper. For all that, however, it still makes me upset to see children berated or belittled in public. This young woman looked tired and worried, but didn't snap at her son or act put out like so many parents do. She even managed to smile and ruffle his hair as they were leaving, and that part was what tugged at my heartstrings so. Whenever I see evidence that there are still children out there who are being treated gently, it makes me feel that there might be some hope left for humanity.

I was still smiling when I returned to the waiting room, where Yorkie was chatting with Nurse Javensen, one of Annemarie's good friends. Both stopped talking and returned my smile as I strode purposefully across the room towards them. "Officer Yorkie, I presume? I'm Dr. Cullen," I said, offering him my hand.

He shook it firmly, and that was when I noticed that a few of his fingernails were newly bitten down to the quick. "Detective, actually," he replied pleasantly. "You can call me Dan, though."

"Bella woke up when I was taking her vitals a few minutes ago, but you'd asked that she not have visitors without you there," Nurse Javensen told me. Yorkie looked slightly offended, and who could blame him? He'd known Bella a lot longer than I had, after all.

I hastened to soothe his ruffled feathers. "I wasn't sure you'd be the one they'd send, and some policemen can be very pushy and belligerent." The detective's expression softened. "Besides, one of us has to play 'good cop,'" I joked, "and keep Bella from getting too stressed out. Her room is this way." I started down the hall, beckoning for him to follow.

Yorkie fell into step beside me. "No, I understand, Dr. Cullen. I appreciate that you're this protective of her." I glanced over and noticed that his expression had darkened considerably. "To be perfectly honest, I'm not such a coward that I'd have let anyone else come to question Bella, but . . . God, just from what Ree told me, I really almost don't want to hear about it, you know?"

"I know," I answered grimly, understanding perfectly how he felt. I stopped in front of Bella's door, which was open. "This is her room." A quick peek around the corner revealed that Bella was indeed awake, her bed raised so she could look out the window. "Bella?" She whipped her head around, startled, but offered a tentative smile when she saw who it was. "Detective Yorkie is here to see you." I entered the room, making myself useful by pulling the two vinyl chairs out from the wall and setting them near her bed for the detective and myself.

"Hell's Bells," Yorkie proclaimed with a grin as he followed me inside. I assumed it was some play on Bella's name, a term of endearment from years ago when she and Eric had been playmates. "You look like Death warmed over, love."

Bella's face lit up when she recognized her father's old friend, and her smile was wider than I would have thought comfortable, what with the bruising on her face. "Mr. Yorkie!"

Yorkie, grinning, crossed the room and embraced Bella, carefully keeping his arms above her rib cage without being asked. "It's so good to see you," he murmured into her hair. "Though I wish to God the circumstances were different." Releasing her from his embrace, but gently tugging at her little hands until her arms were stretched straight out, Yorkie looked Bella up and down. "Look at you — all grown up."

Bella colored slightly, but she was still smiling. "How's Eric?" she asked.

"He's fine. He does well in school, usually all A's. Chess Club, National Honor Society. He's what you might consider a little nerdy, but a really good kid." Yorkie let go of Bella's hands and perched on the edge of her bed. "Did Dr. Cullen tell you my wife's a nurse here still?"

She smiled shyly at me. "Yeah, he did. I remember how back then, you were the one who worked nights. Charlie would send me over there if he had to work overnight, and she was the one home to watch us."

"We only switched shifts a couple of years ago. Those were my early years on the force, so I didn't get much choice as to hours," he explained. "This works out well during the school year, though. Ree has breakfast with Eric when she gets home, then goes to bed while he's at school. By the time he gets home, she's up again, and then we're all usually together for supper. Weekends are kind of tough, though, because we never seem to have the same one off. Still, Eric keeps pretty busy with school activities, and we all manage to grab _some_ time together."

"That sounds nice," Bella said, a bit wistfully. "The way you work it out. Charlie always worried about me even when he'd leave me at the Blacks' on Saturdays or Sundays, but I guess Eric's old enough to be left alone."

"He doesn't have a girlfriend, you know," Yorkie said teasingly, causing Bella to flush to the roots of her hair. Then abruptly, he sobered, no doubt remembering the reason for his visit. "Well, Bella, why don't you tell me what happened last night?"

Bella, her smile gone, glanced at me as if unsure of what to say. I came over and placed my hand on the top of her head, a gesture that my children tend to find very calming. "It's all right, Bella," I told her in a soothing voice, gently massaging her scalp. "You're not in trouble. You don't have anything to hide. And the man who did this to you," I added, indicating her cast, "is a monster that could — that _will_ hurt other girls if you don't tell us what happened and how to find him."

"That's right, sweetie," Yorkie affirmed. He was holding one of those tiny notepads that police investigators always carry on TV . . . save those whose total recall of events and relevant trivia is quintessential to the plot. He reached out and patted Bella's knee with his other hand. "Just tell me everything that happened. Don't leave anything out because you feel it's unimportant. Sometimes the tiniest details end up being crucial."

Bella picked at a pulled thread in her blanket for a moment, then finally heaved a huge sigh and started her story. "James left a little after midnight," she began haltingly. "I was hungry, so I got a candy bar and some chips from the vending machine, and after I ate them, I went to bed. I was asleep when he came back to our room . . . I didn't even hear him come in, but I woke up when I felt him yanking me out of bed by my hair."

"What time was this?" Yorkie interrupted, pausing in his scribbling.

"Um . . . I really don't know."

_I hardly think she stopped to check the clock, idiot,_ I thought, rolling my eyes.

"I'm sorry." Bella's voice was small.

"It's not your fault," I repeated to her, stroking her hair. I gave Yorkie a pointed look. "Is it, Detective?"

"No, of course not!" He sounded shocked. "It's an important detail, because we don't know how long you were unconscious while this James was getting away, but nothing's your fault." Yorkie slid a little closer to her on the bed — looked like neither of us would be needing the chairs, after all. "Go on, sweetie. You said he . . . pulled you out of bed?" he prompted.

"Uh-huh." Bella didn't seem to know what to do with her hands, and settled for tucking them under the covers. "I was so . . . tired, and kind of disoriented, because there weren't any lights on, but he had his face right up to mine and was screaming things at me."

"What kinds of things?"

Bella blushed a very deep red, and again I felt I had to intercede on her behalf. "Is that really necessary?" I asked.

"I guess what I'm trying to do is determine a motive. Did he accuse you of something?" Yorkie inquired of Bella. "I know it's uncomfortable, Bella, but it's better I know everything now rather than having to question you again later."

"He called me some names . . . and said I'd put the paper birds in his glove box again so they'd peck his eyes out when he was trying to drive."

Yorkie nodded, his face grave. "Did you?"

Bella actually snorted with laughter. "Not that I recall," she replied, relaxing slightly. "But I guess he didn't believe me, because he slapped me across the face, really hard, and let go of my hair so that I'd fall down. I got the door open and ran out onto the . . . you know, the balcony, or walkway, or whatever . . . but he caught up to me right before I got to the stairs. He hit me a few more times, and I tried to crouch down so I could crawl away, but he grabbed my hair again and threw me down the steps. I remember falling . . . but I blacked out before I landed." Bella let out a huge breath she'd been holding. "And that's all I remember. Until I woke up here, that is."

I reached out once again and pulled Bella into a hug. "Thank you, Bella," I murmured. "I know that took a lot of courage to tell us."

"What they're going to want to know," Yorkie said, "is what led up to this. Preferably from the beginning. When did you start seeing this James?"

Bella's brow furrowed as she thought. "Um . . . we met at school right after it started for the year. He sat next to me in homeroom because of it being all alphabetical."

"You never met him before that? Saw him around school?"

She shook her head. "His father moved them here . . . well, Seattle, that is . . . over the summer so he could remarry," Bella explained. "Before that, they lived in Olympia. It was the first time we met."

"How soon after that did you start dating?" the detective asked.

"Almost right away. When the teacher took roll, James leaned over and said my name meant 'beautiful swan.' He walked me to my first class. They always start school on Wednesday, so you have time to ease back into the routine before going a full week, and he asked me out for that Friday night."

"Anywhere special?"

Bella looked down at the blanket again. "Um, no, just to McDonald's," she whispered, as though embarrassed that her first date hadn't been a candlelit dinner at Cascadia or Dahlia Lounge or some such place.

I thought of something. "Bella, I assume James is over eighteen because of the motel. How come he was in class with you?"

"Well . . . he kind of failed his sophomore year. Um, twice." I didn't think Bella had enough blood in her to blush that furiously. "I guess 'cause they moved so much, and — "

"I imagine James will be making plenty of his own excuses without your help," Yorkie interrupted, rather brusquely. Though I'd been thinking much the same thing, I was surprised at his tone. Still, if I'd seen enough battered women in my profession to turn me sour, Detective Yorkie had to be half-past give-a-shit, as the saying goes. He must have thought it was time to change the subject, because his next question was, "When did you leave Seattle?"

She thought for a moment. "Umm . . . December twenty-sixth."

"Arthur Nylund claims that you ran away on the twenty-second," Yorkie contradicted, flipping back a page in his little book.

"That's — that's not true!" Bella cried. "He kicked me _out!_ He made me leave in the middle of a snowstorm at almost midnight!" Her lower lip trembled. "I — I went over to James's because I didn't have anywhere to go. Where was I supposed to _go?_" Bella's frail shoulders started to heave, and I gently pulled her closer to me.

"It's okay, Bella," I said, for what seemed like it must have been the tenth time. She was crying now, the wracking sobs of a young girl that had been pushed too far in too short a time and with no one to help her.

"But which day was it? I'm not saying I don't believe you, Bella, I just need you to be sure. It could be very important," Yorkie wheedled.

"Arthur made me leave the night of the twenty-second," Bella said, her voice still a little faint, as if she were trying very hard not to cry any more. "I stayed at James's until the day after Christmas, the twenty-sixth, when we left his house and headed for Port Angeles. I forget what day we came to Forks, exactly . . . but I remember four nights in the motel, so it must have been the twenty-ninth."

"Twenty-ninth," the detective murmured as he wrote. He looked up. "Bella, had James ever hit you before?"

Bella looked away towards the window. "A few times," she admitted reluctantly.

"Like how often?"

"Um . . . when I'd mess up and nag at him, or like the time I said he shouldn't buy alcohol when we had almost no money."

Yorkie narrowed his eyes. "Does he drink often?"

"N — well, he's been doing it more and more, but before this all happened — us leaving — he'd just have a couple beers when we went out on dates."

"Did you drink with him? His lawyer will ask, and it's best to be honest."

"I had a beer with him a couple times," she said softly. "I didn't really like the taste, but he said it would make me relax."

Yorkie tapped his pen nervously against his leg. "Bella, I really don't want to ask you this, but it's going to be an issue if this goes to court. Did you, uh . . . that is, at any point, did you and James . . ."

Bella might have been tired and weak, but she wasn't stupid. "Yes," she whispered. This time, she didn't even blush. It was as though she had gotten to the point where nothing was too personal anymore. "I slept with him."

I felt a rush of euphoria that horrified me once I recognized the reason. "Well, at least we can get him on statutory rape, if nothing else," I offered, all the while feeling disgusted with myself for managing to find a silver lining in _anything_ that Bella had been forced to endure.

"It wasn't rape," Bella protested. "He didn't force me."

Yorkie shook his head at me. "It wouldn't apply in this case." To Bella, he explained, "Hon, there are laws designed to keep older men — or women, for that matter — from pressuring teenagers into having sex. The reasoning behind it is that a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old might think they're ready, but lack the maturity to make that decision. In a statutory rape case, only age matters, not whether the victim was willing."

"I don't understand," I said, truly bewildered. "How does it not apply? He's over eighteen."

"In Washington, the age of consent is sixteen. For James to have committed statutory rape at this point, he'd have to be at least sixty months older than Bella."

"Christ," I swore, kicking angrily at the night table. Bella cringed away from me, probably afraid that I was angry with her. For not being younger, or for not being taken advantage of by someone older. Something logical like that. "Sweetie," I murmured, "I'm upset because it seems like nothing's going right for you." I glared at Yorkie as though it were his fault that the system was a mess. "It's like the laws were written around that creature who hurt you. That's all."

"What's going to happen to James?" she asked softly. My heart broke for her; she had been beaten within inches of her life, but still she managed to feel compassion for her attacker and concern for his future. "I don't want to press charges or anything."

Yorkie sighed. "Since there don't appear to have been any other witnesses, I guess nothing will happen. The district attorney decides, based on your injuries and story, whether the case is strong enough, but it almost never is without the victim's involvement. They can't be wasting their time on cases that'll undoubtedly fall apart anyway." He leaned forward and spoke pleadingly. "Bella, I know it's frightening, but you can't just refuse to testify against him. That means he'll go free without so much as a slap on the wrist."

"Look, I think this could wait until later," I interrupted. "Bella's told you all she can, and now she needs to rest. Whatever happens later won't be affected by further conversation at this point."

"You're right, Dr. Cullen. Bella, I really appreciate your honesty. Whatever happens, you didn't fold up like most women in your situation do; you told the truth even though you were scared and hurt." Detective Yorkie reached out and gently cupped Bella's face in his hands. "You're still your dad's girl, it seems."

Bella blushed again, but this time there might have been . . . pleasure? Well, everyone likes being praised, and there was definite admiration in Yorkie's tone. I know Esme and I praise our kids as often as we can do it honestly, not wanting to dilute the message with insincerity. I had had reservations, at first, about Bella's ability to handle being questioned by the police. She didn't appear to be a particularly strong girl under the best of circumstances, and recent events had obviously drained her of what little spirit she might have normally possessed. I was sure that she _would_ fold up like Yorkie had predicted.

As it turned out, I needn't have worried. Bella had been as comfortable with the detective as a shy girl like her could be with anyone. And underneath that weak, frail exterior, it was obvious that she had a core of pure steel. But that's life, isn't it? What you fail to prepare for, whether out of laziness, lack of resources, or complete absence of foresight will crush you like a bulldozer. Those things that are met squarely with all plans in place mock you with the way they fall into alignment, seemingly without any regard for your efforts.

After Yorkie had left, promising to keep in touch with Bella and return her things as soon as they were processed, I sat back down on the bed next to her and laid my arm across her shoulders. "I know that was very hard for you, Bella. But you did very well, and now it's over."

"Do you want me to press charges?" she whispered, as though pleading with me to tell her 'no.' Why else would she be asking a man she'd met only hours ago, hardly better than a stranger off the street, what I thought she should do?

"If it were one of my daughters, I'd expect no less," I replied gently. "But then again, I'd be with them every step of the way, and that's a very different situation. You have to decide whether you feel up to doing this on your own, and whether you could live with yourself if this James _did _hurt another girl because he assumed he could get away with it once more."

Bella looked like she was ready to cry again, and I regretted trying to lay a guilt trip on her. It wasn't Bella's fault that she was the most recent in a long string of women I'd treated who'd refused to make their abusers face any kind of consequences. It also wasn't her fault that she had no one to help her. If this had happened to Alice or Rosalie, and they didn't have Esme and me around for support, I shudder to think what they might go through trying to force the authorities to listen.

But it was time to change the subject. "I brought you some books," I said cheerfully, noting how her eyes lit up at the announcement. I pulled my arm from around her shoulders and leaned over to retrieve the canvas tote Alice had packed, which I'd parked next to the bed during her nap. "You like to read?"

Bella nodded eagerly, and I fished inside the bag for the books I'd brought. She looked them over as though they were all beloved flavors of ice cream and she was going to have trouble picking only one. "Alice didn't know what you'd like, so she had me bring all different kinds," I explained. There were _David Copperfield _and_ Northanger Abbey _(yes, Nietzsche, hope is the worst of all evils, but I'll try anyway), _The Invisible Man, The Joy Luck Club, Dolores Claiborne, _and one book Alice had forced upon me that she insisted Bella must read. "My daughter swears by this one," I told her, tapping the cover of _Winter of Fire._ Bella, who to my surprise had actually been fingering _Northanger Abbey,_ dropped it in favor of Alice's battered novel with the hooded, determined-looking young blonde on the cover.

"And . . . I guess this is to keep you company," I said, biting my lip to keep from laughing as I pulled Tufty out of the bag. Tufty is Alice's most treasured possession, a battered bear that was lying against her pillow the day she came to live with us. He was new then, of course, but . . . Tufty has led a rather, well, _active_ life in the years since. Alice was eleven when we adopted her, and I had questioned Esme at the time as to whether a stuffed animal were truly an appropriate gift for a girl that age.

I was younger then, you see, and thought I was pretty smart.

But there's something about being married that turns men stupid, or maybe it's just that they were stupid all along and no one thought to point it out before. Esme doesn't come right out and call me dumb, of course — she just gives me patient looks and waits for it to become self-evident.

Anyway, there hasn't been a night since that Alice has been separated from her bear, and I wondered at my daughter's gesture. I assumed that like the books, Tufty was only being loaned out . . . but still, I couldn't imagine why she would hand over her beloved friend, even just for a few days, to a girl she'd never even met. Bella seemed just as surprised as I, but she accepted Tufty gratefully and closed her eyes as she squeezed him tight, though the pressure on her ribs made both of us wince.

"I'll just need to check you over quickly, and then you can read to your heart's content," I promised her. Bella didn't protest while I gently palpated her rib cage, though I did notice her gripping huge fistfuls of the blanket, causing Alice's book to slide dangerously close to the edge of the bed. "Tender there, hon?" She nodded. "Well, those should mend fairly quickly. They're only cracked, and you're young and . . ." I glanced up at her face and back down again, thinking of her obviously malnourished state. "And, well, youth is a plus when it comes to mending quickly. You'll be taking bromelain for pain, but you need to be careful not to do anything to strain them.

"Of course, considering your leg is on hiatus for now," I said teasingly, "I guess I don't need to tell you not to play football or even lay on your stomach. But try not to cough, or if you have to, kind of force it to only affect your throat, not wrack your whole body, okay?" Bella nodded again. "And just use your common sense," I finished. "If anything compresses your stomach or stretches that area, don't do it."

"How long will I be in a cast?" she wanted to know.

"Well, that all depends," I said, cocking my head to the side. "You'll be here a few more days. Considering your age and the clean, relatively minor break, I'm guessing six weeks or so until that cast comes off. You'll have it checked out after about three weeks, just to make sure it's mending properly, and then again around the five-week mark. It might even be ready to come off that early, if you're lucky."

"How am I going to shower and stuff?" Bella wondered.

"I can get you some plastic cast covers," I assured her, knowing that if I left it up to Social Services, Bella would be lucky to get a trash bag and duct tape. "It's also really important that there be someone there to help you get in and out of the shower, and preferably stand just outside in the meantime, because you could slip so easily. There are some nonslip shower shoes I can get you, too. If the cast _does_ get a little wet, try to dry it with a hair dryer. If it gets _really_ wet, you'd better call about getting it changed, because a damp one can fall apart or, at the very least, cause a skin infection."

Bella was starting to look overwhelmed. I stroked her hair some more, noting that it still hadn't been washed. Maybe Annemarie could arrange for one of the aides to do that tonight. If her hair were clean, I could brush it for her, the way Esme does for Rosalie when she's had a panic attack. There had been a large cut on Bella's forehead requiring twelve stitches, but it wasn't near enough to the hairline to cause problems, provided the aide was careful not to get shampoo on it. Not that shampoo could really _hurt_ the wound — it is only soap, after all — but it would sting terribly.

"Sweetie, don't worry so much," I said softly. "Like I said, you'll be here a few days. And I'll write this all down for you. There isn't going to be a test," I finished, trying to make a joke of it. Bella didn't smile; she still looked sad, and so tired.

"Then after about six weeks, I'll be okay?" she asked hopefully.

"Well, no, not exactly. Once this cast is off, you'll have to have a walking cast for a few more weeks until you can walk on your own, or possibly with a cane. Your muscles are going to atrophy in that leg in the meantime, so you'll need physical therapy throughout to work them. You won't be back to normal for quite a few months, I'm afraid."

Bella stared down at the blanket. "As to your concussion, I've explained to your caseworker what to look for, and I'm sure she'll pass it along to whomever you're placed with. I know it doesn't feel this way, but your injuries were actually fairly minor, considering. You lost a lot of blood, but fortunately someone found you and called the ambulance in time. You were very lucky."

I stopped for breath then, feeling tendrils of anger trying to worm their way into my emotions as I recalled my meeting with Bella's caseworker. That had been a . . . well, an _interesting_ conversation, to say the least. She wasn't much younger than me — not very much older than Bella, when you came right down to it — and her attitude was that of someone whose very job was an inconvenient but necessary interruption in the flow of her real life. Earlier this morning, while Bella slept, Victoria had stopped in just long enough to snap out a few questions to the head nurse, scribble in her notebook, and finally — reluctantly — speak with me for a few minutes. She hadn't been interested in seeing Bella at all.

I'd told her basically the same things I'd just told Bella — that our patient was stable, but not necessarily out of danger, and that we had to proceed cautiously. She was young, and that was definitely a plus, but had been badly damaged for all that. The physical trauma was one thing, but dealing with the emotional fallout, both from her attack and the trial, should she decide to press charges —

"I'll recommend that she get therapy, but the rest is up to the cops," Victoria interrupted, finishing her scribbling and snapping her notebook shut. "That part isn't my job."

"How fortunate for you that Bella being attacked will not serve to put you out in any way," I said, in a tone I typically reserve for young mothers who wonder how their baby could have the nerve to get sick after a healthy breakfast at McDonald's. Sarcasm has been my saving grace since leaving med school; if I didn't have it to fall back on, I'd end up diagnosing children with Idiot Parents Syndrome and the parents as Too Stupid to Live, and I have a feeling that wouldn't go over well with the board.

But just as I've often felt the urge to snatch up one of those neglected babies and take it home to Esme, what I really wanted, just then, was to inform Victoria that if she didn't wish to be responsible for the welfare of children, she ought to consider a different line of work.

"But I can't discharge her without knowing what kind of care she'll be receiving," I added firmly. "I realize you're overloaded, being a foster parent myself, but I can't have Bella's health jeopardized as a result, particularly right now when her injury is so recent."

Victoria seemed indifferent, as though Bella's needs were less important than her schedule. "We'll get her a bed in the group home after she's discharged, then try to find a family. But there's the Nylund situation to deal with first, and she'll probably face a week in a detention center for running away from them."

"For Christ's sweet sake!" I exclaimed, shocked at this woman's callousness. "She's in a leg cast and reeling from a concussion!"

"I'm not the one who'll make the decision, Doc," Victoria told me, shrugging noncommittally as she snapped her gum. "You asked, I answered. Juvie might go easy on her because of the injuries. Not up to me."

As I'd watched Victoria make her way across the parking lot, her flaming red hair contrasting sharply with the pure white snow that covered just about everything in sight, I remember thinking that Bella might just be suffering from the psychological counterpart of Too Stupid to Live — an affliction an old colleague of mine from Columbia dubbed Asshole Magnet and actually considered submitting to the DSM-V.

"For now, though, your job is to relax and get well," I summed up, wondering if the order sounded as ridiculous to Bella as it did to me. "Sleep as much as you can, and just try to keep your mind off all that. There'll be plenty of time to cross those bridges when you come to them."

Bella didn't look at me. Her eyes were fixated on her cast, propped up on a contoured foam slant pillow. While traction has gone out of fashion for minor fractures due to the long hospital stay it requires, it's still necessary to keep the leg elevated and stable. "Don't worry, sweetheart," I said softly, patting Bella's hand, the back of which was bruised purple. "Everything's going to be all right."

Bella, still cradling Tufty, looked as though she wanted to believe me, and who could blame her? I almost believed myself.


	4. Getting to Know You

**Carlisle**

I came to know Bella Swan much more intimately over the course of my next two shifts. Though usually such mundane tasks as vital signs are handled by a nurse or CNA, Forks Community Hospital is hardly overloaded with cases, so I took these over as often as I could in order to spend more time with her. I couldn't help feeling a sense of responsibility towards this frail girl, who evoked from me the same protective instincts as my own daughters. I also learned enough about her situation to make me realize that Bella's problems weren't going to end when she was discharged. I found myself dreading the day she'd be taken out from under my care and placed God only knew where.

Bella had developed a worrisome cold. It wasn't particularly severe in its symptoms, and in one of my children would hardly keep their lives from going on like normal. But Bella's cracked ribs made it imperative that she cough as little as possible. Also, I didn't like what the fever was doing to her. It disturbed her sleeping patterns and depleted her fluids when her body was screaming for both in order to heal her other injuries. The fever also messed with her mind, making her remember things that were better left forgotten and creating future scenarios that ought not be entertained, even in the realm of imagination. She talked in her sleep, this girl — whether this was a longtime habit of hers or something new brought on by her illness wasn't clear to me. But some of the things I overheard when I'd check on Bella during her naps made me even more concerned for her welfare.

Of course, I have to admit that I had a hand in the remembering part. It started out as a way to make conversation, telling her about my family as I examined her the third morning. It was two days since she had been first admitted. Bella looked pleased to see me when I peeked around the edge of her door, hoping I wasn't disturbing her precious sleep.

"Morning, Bella." I gave her a bright smile, and was gratified when she reciprocated. "What are your symptoms today?" That question worked a little better than _"How are you feeling?"_ as it could not easily be dismissed with "Fine" or "Better."

"My throat's still a little sore," she answered me, and indeed, her voice sounded scratchy.

"Are you having trouble breathing?" Bella shook her head. "Have you been drinking lots of water like I told you?"

Bella looked at me guiltily. "I tried to, but the water was making my stomach hurt." I could certainly sympathize with that. Personally, I'd die of thirst before drinking tap water from anywhere but my own home, and only then because we have a ridiculously expensive filter installed. Even that water tends to make me sick if I drink it on an empty stomach, or too early in the morning. No wonder Bella was having trouble — as if she needed to feel any sicker right now.

"Tell you what, sweetie — I'll bring you a bottle of orange juice from the vending machine, and you just pour a little into each cup of water. It doesn't taste great, but it'll be much easier on your stomach than plain water," I said.

Bella looked surprised. "I didn't think of that," she answered me. "Thank you."

"Well, I know what you mean about plain water. Sometimes you just want to throw it up." I sat down next to Bella and pulled out my stethoscope. "Now, I'm just going to listen for a moment and make sure your lungs are okay. Deep breath."

Bella flinched when the cold instrument pressed against her skin, but she did as I asked. To fill the awkward silence, I groped for something we could chat about. Perhaps she'd like to hear about my family.

"My son is just about your age," I told her. "He's a sophomore, as well."

Her heartbeat was a little quicker than I would have liked, but that could easily be chalked up to nerves . . . or a nervous reaction to cold metal coming out of nowhere. Someone really ought to design self-warming medical supplies. "You can't be old enough to have a sixteen-year-old," Bella whispered.

I laughed, accidentally jostling the stethoscope, and I winced as it bumped against her rib and echoed in my ear. Bella's face blanched. "Sorry, honey," I murmured, stroking the sore place gently. "But if I had a nickel for every time I heard that, I could pay for Edward's college in one lump sum. You're right, Bella. I'm only thirty-three. My wife and I adopted Edward about six years ago."

"That's funny," she mused.

"In, Bella," I ordered, and she took another deep breath. "And . . . out. Good." I lowered the earpieces so they lay loosely around my neck, then started to probe her glands for any swelling. "How is it funny, exactly?" I asked.

"Usually the older kids don't get adopted," she explained, looking over at the bed table. I followed her gaze and saw the pitcher of water there.

"You want some water, love?" I asked. It was strange, how easily I kept slipping and using the same terms of endearment that I do for my daughters. I had only known Bella for what probably added up to two full shifts, and already I felt very fatherly towards her.

Bella bit her lip and then nodded reluctantly, as though she were afraid of inconveniencing me. Or maybe she was dreading feeling sick after drinking it. Still, this pitcher had been recently left here, and the ice wasn't melted yet; only a thin film of condensation covered the sides, rather than long drips indicating that most of the cold had dissipated. Cold water seems to go easier on the stomach than lukewarm. I picked it up and poured out a full cup for Bella. "Ten is old now? You must think I'm ancient," I teased as I handed it to her.

"Thanks," she said softly, taking the cup from me. "Well, most people want babies." Bella swallowed the water quickly before turning her head so it faced the window. Her brow furrowed as she thought. "Sometimes a woman won't want to be bothered with diapers and all, so she'll take a young kid . . . but after about age eight or so, it's very rare. Those kids just end up in foster homes permanently."

"How old were you?" I asked gently. I didn't want to pry if the subject were a tender one.

"Nine," Bella answered.

"Can you tell me what happened?" I prodded. "You don't have to, of course, Bella. I'd just like to know." Actually, I already _did_ know, but only part of the story. I wanted to see if Bella trusted me enough to share what was, after all, very personal information.

I expected her to blush, but this time she actually went the opposite route and blanched about as white as the sheets. "Um, well, Renee — that's my mother," Bella began haltingly, "left when I was four. They got a divorce. And then . . ." She took a deep breath, and I saw her nose crinkle a bit as if stung by tears. "Right after I turned nine, Dad was killed. In the line of duty. He's a . . . he _was_ a policeman. Renee didn't want . . . well, she was married by then, and her husband didn't want kids. And she was in some kind of trouble, I'm not really sure what. So they sent me to the group home for a couple of months, then to a foster family. Eventually she just surrendered me to the state."

I tried not to let the anger I was feeling show on my face, lest Bella think it was directed at her. It was a common enough occurrence, where a parent remarried to someone who did not welcome a child's presence. It still hurt. If Esme were ever left widowed by me — God forbid — and gave up our children to remarry, I'd come back and haunt some sense into her.

"How many homes have you been in?" I wanted to know.

Bella looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't really remember. It's been a lot," she told me tiredly. "At least twelve."

Expecting to hear six, or maybe seven, I was startled by the number Bella gave me. Under normal circumstances, it was unusual for any child to move more than about once a year, if that. "Why do you think you've been moved so often?" I asked her as I fastened the sphygmomanometer cuff around her skinny arm.

"Well, they hope you'll get adopted, see? Even the older kids sometimes do. If they're really backed up, they'll kind of let it slide, but mostly after a few months, if the parents aren't asking about adoption, they'll just give you to someone else and let them try you out."

It bothered me greatly, the way she viewed herself as a piece of merchandise. _Used_ merchandise, at that, practically canvassing door to door until a willing purchaser was found. But I also knew that there had to be more to the story. The state simply didn't have enough families to go around. Even for children whose goal was adoption, it wasn't the norm to move them any more often than necessary. Not that I thought Bella was lying or anything; she really did sound as though she believed what she was telling me. Obviously, she had either jumped to conclusions or been fed misinformation by someone. _Gee, I wonder who that could have been?_

I noted Bella's blood pressure, which was a tad low, then removed the cuff. "I can't see why they weren't fighting over you," I said, trying to cheer her up, but only succeeding in making her face flush red as a beet. "Such a pretty girl. And I think you're a sweetheart, though maybe you're a real demon at home," I teased, my reward a tiny smile that didn't quite reach Bella's eyes. "I'm surprised you weren't ever adopted."

"I almost was," she said, so low that I almost didn't catch it. "Once."

Now, that was . . . odd. "Almost? What happened?"

"Well . . . I was staying with the Bartels. Mrs. Bartel was one of those society types, into charities and . . . I don't know, art shows and stuff. She didn't want to go on the waiting list for a baby, so she said she'd take an older girl, about eleven or twelve. She wanted one that she could dress up and get to help with fundraisers and stuff. She was talking about doing a coming-out party when I got older. It was kind of scary," Bella admitted. "I didn't know the first thing about clothes or . . . or art, or any of it. It was like _Gigi_ or something. Or _Pretty Woman._ I never knew which fork to use, either."

"But what happened?" I pressed her gently.

Bella's eyes started to fill with tears, and I almost regretted asking. I didn't want her to relive any painful memories . . . but I really had to know. "I didn't know why," she whispered. "She was going to adopt me. She promised. But there was a waiting period — I think Renee hadn't actually signed me over yet, or something," — _Like a car,_ I thought — "or maybe the Bartels had some time to change their minds. I didn't know. Then one day I came home, and my caseworker was outside with my suitcase. She drove me back to the group home, and then I got a new family, but no one told me why. I never saw Mrs. Bartel again until months later, outside the library."

Bella pressed her palm quickly to one eye, then made as though she'd only been pushing a strand of hair behind one ear. Her hair, as I'd suspected, was indeed a beautiful dark mahogany now that it was clean. Annemarie had washed it herself, using the time to chat with Bella, and tied it back nicely with a blue ribbon. Though the hair was limp and lifeless, Bella still looked so much better without those clumps hanging in her face. "She wouldn't look at me, and seemed embarrassed," she finished. "She was . . . um, she was pregnant."

"I see." A word it would never do to repeat in front of Bella — in front of _any_ female — danced on the tip of my tongue and made me half-crazy from trying not to blurt it out. "That must have been horrible for you, Bella," I said softly, covering one of her scrawny wrists with my hand, as though the gesture could somehow begin to heal all the hurts she had suffered. "That was a terribly selfish and cruel thing for her to do to you. A promise is a promise." Although who would _want_ to be adopted by someone like that? Still, all Bella remembered, or even understood, was the rejection itself, not the narcissistic . . . er, _bitch_ behind it.

Bella looked perplexed. "Why would she want me when she had her own baby?" she said slowly.

It was my turn to look puzzled. "What kind of question is that?" I asked. "You think adopting children should be some kind of last resort? Do you really believe all the adopted kids out there are consolation prizes?"

She was staring at me as though I had suddenly grown a second head, and a woman's, at that. "Well . . . I just . . . so you didn't adopt Edward just because your wife couldn't have a baby?"

I flinched as the heavy fist of grief slammed into my chest without warning. Sometimes days would go by without my thinking of the tiny little infant we'd lost, but I often wondered if that were worse, somehow. Forgetting, for any length of time, seemed to make the pain that much stronger when it did inevitably rear its ugly head once again.

Seeing my face, Bella hastened to retract her question. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business," she said quickly, flushing again. "I didn't mean to be nosy."

"No, not at all, sweetheart," I murmured, reaching up unconsciously to rub at my chest, where the familiar hole was now fully open. "Actually, I feel like a bit of a hypocrite, because we _didn't_ try adoption until after we'd lost our baby boy."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she murmured. She couldn't very well turn any darker red, so she settled for looking away. "I didn't know that."

"Of course you didn't, Bella. Don't worry about it. Esme was crushed, of course — we both were. It still hurts her, even now. And I don't think either of us can ever, deep down, stop wishing that our little boy had lived. But we decided it was for the best. There are so many children out there that need good, loving homes. I suppose we were being very selfish.

"Most couples in that situation ask for a baby, most likely to replace the one they lost," I went on. "And, like you said, they wait and wait — five, seven, sometimes ten years — when in the meantime there are children like Edward waiting so patiently, hoping that one day someone will love them enough to take them home and bring them up as their own."

"They think we're used," Bella said softly, tracing the waffle pattern on her blanket. "Like wearing someone else's clothes, or using someone else's dishes."

My heart ached for this poor girl who'd come to believe that she was nothing more than a thrift-store purchase. "Well, the minute we met Edward, neither Esme nor I could imagine going home without him." I smiled at the memory. "And now, when I look at my son . . . when I think of how different it all could have been, had we never adopted him . . . and the others. Had we not lost Benjamin, probably it would never have occurred to us to adopt at all, and where would we all be then?"

"You have others?" Bella's eyes were wide with curiosity. "Oh, that's right, your daughter sent this bear," she amended, giving Tufty a nudge where he lay next to her. "So . . . did your wife get pregnant after? I've heard that happens. It's like the woman gives up and suddenly relaxes enough to have her own baby."

I shook my head. "We haven't tried since." Seeing Bella's shocked expression, I quickly caught on to her train of thought and let out a snort of laughter. "No, no, that's not what I meant," I protested, holding my hands up. "We use pills, that's all." Bella's face began to flush roughly the same color as a tomato. "Nope, none of them are our children biologically. But in the way that counts most, they are."

"How many?" Bella asked.

"Emmett's our oldest, and he just turned eighteen," I said. "He'll be graduating this spring. Rosalie and Jasper are twins, juniors. Alice is sixteen, a sophomore like you and Edward."

"Five kids?" Bella asked incredulously. "You adopted _five kids?_"

"Indeed. Well, Rosalie and Jasper are still technically foster children," I corrected myself, "but not for lack of trying." The subject was one that never failed to set my teeth on edge, and this time was no exception. We'd had our share of battles over those two, and thinking about it was like rubbing salt on a wound. "Their mother is still alive, but hardly fit to take care of them. Still, the courts part like the Red Sea for a biological mother's every request, it seems. She's prevented us from going through with the adoption twice now, and . . . we're so afraid we'll end up losing them to her."

"But if she's fighting, she must love them, right?" Bella asked, her eyes confused. "Otherwise, she'd just give them up . . . wouldn't she?"

_Oh, Bella. And here I thought you lost your innocence long ago._ "Well, that's one way of looking at it, I suppose," I replied cautiously. I couldn't betray Jasper's and Rosalie's trust by telling Bella the details — the horrific scars that covered every inch of Jasper's body that could be hidden by clothing . . . Rosalie's anxiety attacks whenever a man got too close or voices were raised even slightly . . . Jasper's screaming, thrashing nightmares, not to mention all the mornings we'd found him sleeping on the sofa, rather than turn his lamp on and keep Emmett awake . . . and both of them so utterly ashamed of who they were and what had been done to them that they could barely look us in the eye, nor even at their own faces in the mirror. "But we can't in good conscience let them go without a fight, not when they were so traumatized," I finished. "You realize I can't share specifics."

Bella nodded understandingly, and I thought I caught something in her expression — relief, perhaps, or even a spark of trust kindling in her eyes?

_You _can_ trust me, Bella._ I willed her to understand that, if nothing else. I wasn't going to betray her or hurt her, as she had obviously been hurt and betrayed many times. She really looked nothing like my daughters — Rosalie was blonde and voluptuous, and while she had been very badly damaged, none of it was outwardly visible to the casual observer. And I had already noted that Bella's eyes were the same shade of brown as Alice's, not to mention that they were both brunettes. But somehow, I had even more trouble comparing the two than I had Bella and Rose. Alice was so . . . bright. Like a little ray of sunshine, glowing with good health and irrepressible spirit. She was very tiny, so much so that she had to wear children's clothes or have Esme alter ones from the ladies' department. Yet by no stretch of the imagination could anyone consider Alice frail.

Theoretically, then, there was no reason why Bella's haggard face should call to mind Alice's bright and smiling one, or even Rosalie's — which, while cold and angry most of the time, was at least awake and, well, _hale._ Still, the connection had been made somewhere in my subconscious, and the side-by-side images could no more help coming _in_ than I'd been able to help names for Bella like 'sweetie' and 'baby' from slipping _out_.

But all the while, I had to fight the nagging feeling that I ought to maintain professional distance with this sick young lady. Every time I spoke with her, another invisible thread was woven between us that would undoubtedly hurt when, eventually, all were cut at once. It would make it too hard when I had to watch her led away, back into the arms of a system that hadn't looked after her when she was healthy and seemed even less inclined to do so now that she was sick.


	5. Home Comforts

**Carlisle**

As I pulled into our driveway that evening, my heart swelled with happiness the moment I caught sight of the welcoming lights of home. Our house would hardly be a suitable subject for Thomas Kinkade, as he has always preferred rustic cottages over custom-built mansions like ours. Still, the scene gave me the same pleasant ache inside as those warm, beautiful paintings. Esme had restored the early twentieth-century house until it became the perfect blend of old-fashioned and modern, with as much space given over to window glass as the structure would safely allow. At night, particularly these winter nights when sunset occurs long before dinnertime, home is like a lighthouse in the midst of a stormy sea.

The house is built into a hill, and our spacious garage shares the first level with a finished basement, half of which is our den and the other half a small-scale ballet studio for Alice. I parked next to Esme's new Prius and noted that her old one, which had been handed down to Emmett on his eighteenth birthday, was missing. It was getting close to supper, and I wondered where he could be. If our house reminds me of a lighthouse, to Emmett it's like the fluorescent 'OPEN' sign in a restaurant window.

I entered the den from the garage and kicked off my shoes next to the door, dropping my bag next to them. I could hear muffled chatter from the kitchen upstairs, but the house was pretty quiet overall. We try not to run the television or radio just for background noise — in fact, I'd debated getting rid of the one in the living room entirely — and the kids are expected to stay downstairs most of the time unless they need quiet to study. It's a long shot, but Esme and I always hope that little things like that will help us bond better as a family.

I started up the stairs, which split at the front-door landing. "Peg, turn off _Oprah_ and bring me a beer!" I called out gruffly — a fairly good imitation, if I do say so myself, of Al Bundy. I heard a giggle from behind the wall that hid the other half of the staircase. Alice, at least, always found my performance funny, even if the others were getting rather sick of it. There came the muffled sounds of her scrambling to her feet, and in a moment she was flying down the top stairs to meet me.

"Hi, Daddy!" she called, leaping off the third step from the bottom just as I turned the corner, trusting that I would catch her. I did, of course; she was so tiny that it was no chore for me to swing her up in the air before pulling her down for a hug. Alice clung to me like a drowning woman might clutch a lifesaver, her arms wrapped around my neck. "How was work?" she asked.

"Work sucked. One sick person after another."

"Daddy, you're a doctor," she chided. "What do you expect?"

"Well, it'd be nice if some healthy people would stop by once in a while, just to break things up a bit," I complained, setting Alice down carefully on the first step. She giggled again and scampered up the stairs ahead of me.

"Daddy's home!"

"Hi, Dad," Edward called from the sofa, where he was sitting cross-legged, doing his homework. As I walked over to the couch, he obligingly put his book off to the side so he could get his hug. As he looked up at me, I noted the dark circles under his eyes and felt a slight surge of annoyance. Edward had a habit of sitting up until one or two in the morning, finishing the homework he'd neglected in favor of practicing piano during the daytime. Esme and I aren't unreasonably strict, but we do insist that the kids all go to bed at ten o'clock on school nights. It's just too important to their health that they get a full night's sleep. Edward and I had talked about his nocturnal habits several times now, but apparently he had 'forgotten' again.

I reached the couch and caught my son up in a bear hug. I try to hold and touch all the kids as much as possible. It's hard to tell, sometimes, if something like that even makes a difference. But I want them to feel loved and cherished, which is hard to accomplish when everyone stays sealed in their own separate little shell. And it's not a chore; I _do_ love them all, so much. I can't even imagine what my life would be like were any one of them not part of it.

"Dad, could you bring me to Port Angeles after school tomorrow for my lesson?" Edward wanted to know as he released me and picked up his pile of materials again. He tapped his pencil as he looked at me imploringly. "Mom has to go all the way to Seattle, so she won't be home in time."

"Of course, son." I had tomorrow off, and I needed to get some things for our camping trip, anyway. I could shop while Edward was taking his piano lesson. "Edward, you were up late again last night, weren't you?" I asked him.

He looked sheepish. "Yeah, well . . . I had that English paper, and I couldn't concentrate until it got late. You know I think best after everyone's asleep and it's quiet."

"I can understand that, son," I told him patiently. "Perhaps when you get to college, that schedule can work; your assignments will mostly be given ahead of time, and you can choose later classes. But right now it isn't practical. You need your sleep."

"This sucks," Edward grumbled. "How'm I supposed to learn like this?" He shoved his notebook off to the side impatiently. "There should be a school where you just study what you want to, and the teachers are only there to help if you need it. And you can go any time."

"Do a good job, and perhaps you can start one someday," I teased him, but then I grew sober. "That might just end up being your calling, if you decide not to pursue music as your profession. But whatever you do, son, I'm very proud of you." Edward's cheeks colored at being praised, and I ruffled his hair before heading off to find the rest of my family.

Rose and Esme were in the kitchen, where the wonderful smell of roast beef nearly made me keel over from hunger. Rosalie was standing at the work island, slicing tomatoes for a huge bowl of salad. "Hey, Rose," I murmured, making sure she saw me coming before I carefully slipped my arms around her waist and gave her a hug. Rose tensed, as she always did, and stood with her knife suspended over the cutting board as I buried my face in her hair. "How was school, sweetheart?"

"Fine." Rosalie took a deep, steadying breath, something her therapist was trying to teach her to do rather than panicking whenever she was touched. "I, uh . . . I got a B on the French test."

"Excellent, Rose. I know you worked hard at it." Rosalie isn't really the best student. Most of the time, she's too keyed up to concentrate, either on the test itself or the prep work for it, and she really just doesn't seem interested in school, period. But all we ask her to do is her best, and Rosalie does like it when we praise her. We've come far enough that our opinion means a lot to both of the twins, which is a good sign, I think.

I still held on to Rosalie, rocking her gently as she started cautiously slicing her tomatoes again. "Where's Emmett?" I asked my wife. Usually he could be found wherever the food was.

"He called a little while before you came home, and said the coach is holding a special practice, so he won't be home until eight or so." Esme waited uncertainly for my reaction.

I sighed. Emmett knew that I liked for us to have dinner as a family every night. But it wasn't as though I'd never been stuck at the hospital past our usual dinnertime, and he could hardly help what the coach decided. It being the first day back to school after Christmas break, it wasn't surprising that the boys would need more time to get back into the swing of things. And Em was really counting on a football scholarship, even if it were only to a small state school.

"And there's this other thing," Esme added, her voice dropping low so as not to carry out to Edward and Alice in the living room. "I got a call from the school. Jasper's been suspended for two days."

"Oh, good God. What happened?" I wasn't angry, but still Rosalie tensed once again, and this time I let her go with a last kiss on the top of her head. Yet she watched us out of the corner of her eye as she hunched over the vegetables.

"Well, evidently there was a fight; he roughed up the other boy pretty badly." Esme looked upset. "We had an . . . I really don't think I was angry, Carlisle, but he seemed to believe that I was, and we got into an argument. I told him he was grounded for two weeks."

I sighed again. This wasn't the first time Jasper had been in trouble at school. He really wasn't a vicious boy, but after the horrific abuse he and Rosalie had suffered, it was no surprise to either of us that Jasper had trouble with impulse control. He could and did lash out at anyone who confronted him, or even when simply startled. The only family member who'd never been the brunt of one of Jasper's panicked rages was Alice.

"I'll go up and talk with Jasper," I told Esme, who was mashing turnips distractedly. She has always been such a wonderful mother, and usually knows how to achieve the perfect balance between being friends with our kids and setting boundaries as a parent. It disturbs her a great deal whenever she feels that a situation wasn't handled properly. "It'll be all right. We were just talking about how he's been much calmer lately, weren't we?" That was for Rosalie's benefit. I wanted her to understand that I didn't expect miracles, just a sincere effort to find alternative ways of dealing with the anger and fear that threatened to consume them both at times.

"That's true." Esme offered me a small smile. "Supper will be ready in about half an hour." I moved closer and gave my wife her home-from-work kiss — the long, twenty-second kiss she read about in some hen magazine that was supposed to keep couples together longer if used every day. As Esme leaned into me, I wondered again, as I did every day, how to go about getting _Redbook_ to advise sex in the shower every morning before work.

* * *

The door to the room Emmett and Jasper shared was shut, but when I knocked and asked if I could come in, he answered right away. It was another form of progress; when the twins had first come to live here, both were the type to ignore anyone who tried to be polite about entering their rooms. While Esme and I never like to violate our children's safe places, nothing would ever get done if we allowed ourselves to be shut out on a whim. We explained to them that we'll respect their privacy if they, in turn, respect us enough to respond when we talk to them. It hadn't happened instantaneously . . . but it seemed there was now a tacit understanding in place.

Jasper lay on his side in bed, bundled in Emmett's NFL throw blanket. I closed the door and crossed the room until I stood beside him, then sat down next to his still form. Neither of us said a word until I probed him with, "Anything you want to tell me?"

My response was more silence, which I was determined to wait out as long as possible. Jasper only stared stonily at the wall. I didn't press him, knowing that he was used to being forced into speaking before he was ready.

"You already know what happened," Jasper finally ground out through clenched teeth.

"I know what Esme told me, which was told to _her_ by some secretary at the school, who could have been sniffing White-Out for all I know. I'd like your side of the story," I answered him patiently. I was patient, too, as I sat through the long silence that followed. Patience was something I'd needed in spades since Rose and Jasper came to live with us.

"It was that asshole Meehan," Jasper began, his hand twisting the blanket. "He came up behind me when I was at my locker, came up and _slammed_ the door against my arm. He and his trolls started right in on me. Wouldn't leave me alone."

I sighed, knowing I probably could have seen that one coming. Courtney Kevin Meehan, 'Kev' to his friends, was hardly a model student, nor a model citizen, for that matter. This wouldn't be the first time Jasper had run afoul of him, and though it takes two to tango, I could never understand why 'Kev' himself never seemed to face any consequences for his part in their skirmishes. While Jasper had never fought with any other boy, not physically, Kev seemed to have been raised on children's books like _Ruling the Playground on Fear Alone _while others were reading _Goodnight Moon_.

"He said . . . he said my mother was crazy, that she came back from the war all psycho, and had psycho kids from it," Jasper told me, disgusted. "Stupid fuckwit can't even _add,_ or he'd know we were born before the whole Persian Gulf thing even started."

"So you hit him." It wasn't a question.

"Well, what was I supposed to do? He can't talk about my family that way!"

My instinctive reaction was a stab of jealousy, though that was hardly fair. But I love Jasper and Rosalie so much that I keep hoping, despite repeated failures, that one day _we_ will be the family they refer to at times like these.

"Jasper, not that I'm condoning the f — that is, Courtney's behavior, but . . . your mother hurt you and Rosalie very badly, and stood by and watched while your stepfather raped and nearly killed your sister. I should think that what he said was very mild by comparison."

"Yeah, well, he didn't have any right to say it, though," Jasper muttered.

I hid a smile out of habit, though Jasper still faced the wall. "Not that I disagree, but the world is full of people who say things they oughtn't," I replied. "You have to learn to deal with it, and not by punching out the Courtneys of the world. If you keep on like this, the next one could be a teacher, or your employer."

"Why should I?" he cried, rolling over so that he faced me, his face working strangely as he fought back tears. "So they can keep doing it? No one ever punishes people like Meehan! No one takes it calmly when _I_ say something rude! But I'm the only one who gets in trouble!" Jasper's hands balled themselves into tight fists, and he started to thump them furiously against the bed.

I tried to place a comforting hand on his stomach, but Jasper hissed and drew backwards until he was pressed against the wall next to the bed. "Don't _touch_," he spat, furious at me.

"Stop it, Jasper," I ordered him gently. "I'm not going to hurt you, and you know that perfectly well. I understand you're angry and upset, but _you_ are the one who lashed out, and we have to talk about that."

"Yeah, well, you'd've lashed out, too! He said . . . he said that Rose and I were living on the state's charity, sucking up taxpayer dollars, and that _you_ only took us in for the money. And to get a break on _your_ taxes."

I couldn't help laughing at the idea of someone going through what we had for those two to get an extra allowance at tax time, but Jasper looked so hurt that I stopped. "Son, you know that isn't true, and it's utterly ridiculous to boot. I know it must have hurt to hear it, though." I sighed. "It's just a fact of life, Jasper. There are people out there that like to hurt us. Part of growing up is learning how to handle it like an adult."

"_How?"_ Jasper sounded like he might cry any second, and it was making him angry at the same time. Above all else, Jasper hated showing weakness. That was undoubtedly, in large part, the reason he got into so much trouble at school. "All you guys ever say is 'Oh, just ignore them.' 'Just walk away, be the better person.' 'Use your words.' _Fuck_ my words!" he screamed, slamming a fist into the headboard. I winced at the crack of bone against wood, not missing the way Jasper's teeth clenched at the impact.

It took every ounce of restraint I had not to grab his hand and check it over, but I forced myself to wait. I knew better than to speak while he was still in pain. When I bang my head or crack my knee against something, I always need a few moments to myself in order not to rip the eyes out of the next person who makes the unfortunate mistake of talking to me. I met Jasper's gaze and held it for several long moments — not accusingly, but only letting him see that I was not going to react to his hysterics.

Gradually, his heavy panting lessened, and that look of crazed fury left his eyes. I reached out slowly, so as not to startle him, and carefully cupped his injured hand in both of my own, probing the bones and tendons to make sure no real damage had been done. Jasper's expression softened as I tenderly kneaded the sore places. "If you are ready to discuss this calmly, we can certainly do so," I said, finally, in a neutral tone of voice.

"You're so _unfair!_" he wailed, finally breaking down and crying. I tried to move slowly, but in my haste to reassure my son, I may have caught him off-guard for all that. It isn't hard to do.

"Leave me _alone!_" Jasper whimpered — _begged_ was more like it, and it wrenched my heart to hear the despair in his voice. Jasper's anger is sad enough to behold, but when he gives up and cowers like a dog kicked into a corner, I just want to curl up and cry myself. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and turned over so that he was laying face down, his last resort when it comes to self-defense.

"Name one time that I've treated you unfairly. I'll give you a hundred dollars," I told my son, rubbing his back as his body wracked with furious sobs.

"You — you — you make me — I have to do what you say no matter how it makes me feel, and it's not _fair!_ You don't know everything!" he cried into the pillow.

I sighed. "No, I don't know everything, Jasper," I replied patiently. "No one does. That is why I _don't_ force you to do anything just because I said so, and it's very unfair of _you_ to accuse me of it. You are always welcome to tell me, _calmly_, if you think that I'm missing some information or if I'm being arbitrary. I didn't even accept what Esme told me without asking your side first."

"She jumped on me the second we were in the car! _She_ didn't need to ask whose fault it was; as far as she was concerned, it was all mine." Jasper sounded miserable.

I rubbed at my forehead. "Jasper, I wasn't there. I'm not saying you're _lying_, but you do tend to misconstrue people's intentions sometimes. Esme isn't angry. In fact, she's very upset that the two of you argued."

"I'll bet," he muttered.

"Look, that's something the two of you will have to work out," I said firmly, seeing that it was no use to act as intermediary in this particular misunderstanding. "What we're discussing is your fight at school, and how you can handle situations like these better in the future."

Jasper turned his head sideways on the pillow so that he was facing in my direction, then fell quiet for a few moments. "I just don't know how," he finally said, sounding defeated.

"I'm going to _help_ you, if you'll just calm down enough to listen," I told him patiently. "First of all, what you have to remember is to act as if the whole thing bores, or even amuses you. People only push your buttons to get a reaction. That's what adults mean to say when they tell you to 'just ignore them,' although sometimes that doesn't work."

"I tried ignoring Meehan once," Jasper told me, and I could hear the anger creeping back into his voice. "Everyone was staring, and he just kept taunting me. It never stopped."

"I know, son. What no one told you was that you have to be careful _when_ to ignore someone. Now, haven't you ever — and be honest here, I'm not going to fall for it if you deny this — haven't you ever said something to hurt someone, but didn't get a response? Maybe they started talking to someone else before you were finished, or something happened to distract them, but everyone else heard and looked at you? Didn't you feel stupid?"

Jasper gave me a sidelong glance, and I could tell that he would have denied it were it not for my earlier statement. "Well, yeah," he muttered. "I mean, everyone does that."

"Well, sometimes you can do that on purpose if you can time it just right. If you can, try to start talking to someone just as Kev — or anyone else — gets out their first syllable. But you have to make sure it doesn't sound contrived.

"Another thing you could do," I said, shifting my weight — I'd almost slid off the bed by that point — "is to try to unnerve him. Like, turn really slowly towards him and give him an evil grin. Just keep grinning and nodding. Or try to think of something funny while he's talking, so you can laugh . . . a _real _laugh, not a fake one . . . and make him feel like an idiot.

"He might try a couple more times, because . . . well, guys like that are a little slow catching on. But what I'm trying to tell you, Jasper, is that when you get upset or angry, you're playing right into his hands. What's the fun in tormenting someone unless they break down or fight back? Eventually, if he gets no reaction or, worse, egg on his face, he'll get bored and move on." Finished giving advice, I settled back and waited for Jasper's response.

"Then why didn't anyone just _say_ that, for Christ's sake?" Jasper cried. "How am I supposed to get that out of 'Uh, duh, just ignore them!'"

I grinned, then — the same evil, leering grin I'd just counseled Jasper on using. "It's an adult conspiracy," I said, "designed to keep you guessing."

Jasper rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh, then rolled over and lay back against his pillow, staring at the ceiling meditatively. "But then what do I say when I can't just ignore him?" he asked finally.

"Well, let's think about that. What might you say that would be a good comeback, but not instigate a fight?"

Jasper still stared at the ceiling, chewing on his bottom lip. I waited. I could have offered several suggestions, but Jasper needed to learn to think for himself. I wasn't always going to be around when he needed help. "Well, suppose someone tells you that your parents didn't want you, and we took you out of charity," I prodded Jasper.

"I dunno," he said, sounding tired. He probably was, after a day like he'd had. I guessed the critical thinking exercises could wait, after all.

"Well, if it were me, I'd say that at least I knew I got picked for my looks and personality. _Some_ people never know if their parents hate being stuck with them. _And_ you could add that if it means you get to live in a big house and draw a huge allowance, then maybe he should off his parents and see what happens."

Jasper, in his shock, actually met my eyes, which normally I had to prompt him to do. "I can't say that!" he breathed. "God!"

"Why not?" I asked, grinning deviously. "You think it isn't true? And is it better to punch someone and get suspended?"

"You said to not let it bother me, though!" Jasper cried.

"Well, yes, but that doesn't . . . we're only human, Jasper, and these things are obviously going to hurt us, but the point is to _act_ like it doesn't bother you. And not to let it bother you _so_ much that you end up in a fistfight," I explained.

He mulled that one over for a moment while I traced Esme's quilt pattern on his pillow sham, thinking about how much work and love she put into it. Emmett, Edward, and Alice all have a full-sized quilt on their beds, and there's one on ours as well. Esme wanted Jasper and Rose to have quilts as well, but they do take a while, so she made the shams first in order to give them something homemade that much sooner. Jasper's quilt is currently in her sewing room in its final stages; she was hoping it would be done by Christmas, but decided to put it off rather than throw everything together in haste. "I'm . . ." I looked up. "I'm s — I'm sorry I got in trouble," he finally muttered.

"Jasper."

He gave a long-suffering sigh. "I'm sorry I didn't handle the situation better."

"That's more to the point. Thank you, son."

"Even if he deserved it."

I rolled my eyes. "All right, now. Dinner will be ready soon," I told him, gently patting him on the arm before standing up. The bed bounced back a bit, and one of Jasper's curls tumbled off his forehead, making him look suddenly very childlike and vulnerable. "Looks like we both have tomorrow off," I said lightly. "I have to go to the market for snacks for us. And, actually, you still need new hiking socks, so we can run by Newton's." I could pick up the socks in Port Angeles while I was waiting for Edward, but I wanted to spend a little time with Jasper. "You want to come with me?"

"I can still go next weekend?" Jasper asked — hopeful, and at the same time skeptical. "Esme said I was grounded."

"You are, at that. Two weeks." His face fell. "But not from the camping trip. Not this time, anyway." Esme and I try to make the weekend campouts an exception when any of the kids are placed on restriction. Those trips are very special to us, and to the children, though they sometimes grumble if there are more exciting activities available that have to be foregone in favor of spending time with 'the folks.'

But none of them can deny that some magic settles over us in the woods, away from streetlamps and all-night diners . . . well, one diner, anyway, Forks being the bustling metropolis it is . . . and, most of all, away from the people. The small-minded, nosy gossipmongers that whisper about us and tease our kids mercilessly for circumstances they can hardly help. My boys tell me things then, confide in me in a way that they're never brave enough to do when we're at home. I know it makes us closer. I have to believe that.

I started to leave the room, but turned back around when I reached the door. Jasper was staring at the ceiling, but he looked at me warily once he sensed that I had paused. "I love you, son," I told him softly. His face flushed, and he looked away as though ashamed, but before he had time to fumble awkwardly for a response, I was already out the door.


	6. Jericho Crumbling

**Carlisle**

Newton's Olympic Outfitters isn't as vast as the department stores in larger cities, but whatever impulse had driven me to bring Jasper there rather than poke around in Port Angeles that afternoon while Edward was at his music lesson was a good one. We had an absolute blast rummaging through all the small-scale departments and trying out various pieces of camping equipment. Despite only needing socks, there's just something about a sporting goods store that makes me sympathize with Alice and her insatiable appetite for shopping.

I did make a few unplanned purchases, namely a new vestibule. We'd been wanting a place to hang our wet gear up so it wouldn't melt all over us in the tent, but wouldn't freeze solid out in the cold, either. Our tiny little Coleman heater would take care of that, provided we cracked the zippers near the bottom to vent it a bit and drain the melted snow. This one also had a rainfly that could be guyed out to provide an awning of sorts, and that way we could take off our snowshoes and boots first so as not to tear or soil the vestibule. We found some other treasures as well: a new gear loft, a baby solar panel that would mount on my pack so I could charge the GPS constantly, and an assortment of stuff sacks. Yes, we already had plenty, but as long as women keep buying shoes in six colors, I guess we men are entitled to a little variety as well.

Newton's definitely goes all out when it comes to setting up displays. There was an entire campsite laid out at the back of the store, complete with cardboard cutouts of trees, animals, and campers in various poses. When Jasper caught sight of the spread, he started laughing so hard that he dropped what he'd been carrying and had to plop down in one of the camp chairs to compose himself.

"What's so funny?" I demanded, so thrilled to hear his rare laughter that I could feel my own starting to bubble up as well, even though I didn't see the joke yet.

"That — that — " Jasper wheezed, pointing towards the center of the campsite. I followed his gaze and saw the object of his fixation: one of the cardboard campers. "That's just how Edward looks when we're trying to set up. All eyebrows, just like Bert."

When I processed what Jasper had said, I snorted so hard that I knew I'd have to blow my nose out in the car later. The camper's martyred expression was classic Edward, who did remind me a bit of Bert on _Sesame Street_ sometimes, what with the way he needed everything just so. And the eyebrows, of course. And once my mind was on that track, I pictured Emmett with his big goofy grin like Ernie and soon found I needed my own camp chair to settle in.

"Remember how he threw that sh — that hissy fit when his marshmallow burnt?" Jasper asked a few minutes later.

"We do have fun, don't we?" I said softly, still trembling from my laughing fit.

Jasper grinned. "Yeah."

I let out my breath and wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand. Laughing like that had felt so wonderful, and the best part was that I had shared the moment with _Jasper,_ of all people. I wondered if perhaps his being suspended were some kind of blessing in disguise, allowing us to bond in a way that we couldn't when things were plodding along like normal. I wasn't about to undermine Esme and cancel his grounding, but it's not like there's much to ground him _from_, anyway. It's more of a symbolic gesture.

"Well, I guess we're done here," I said finally. "Time for food." Reluctantly, Jasper followed me up to the register, glancing one last time over his shoulder at the cardboard effigy that had made for such interesting sport the last few minutes.

From Newton's, we went on to the supermarket for provisions. As men will do when boring tasks are at hand, we divided up the list and took off separately with a shopping basket apiece. I found the powdered milk, oatmeal, dried fruit, and marshmallows, then grabbed a few things we needed for the house before setting off to see if Jasper were having any luck with his own hunt.

Not surprisingly, I found him in the book and magazine aisle, poring over a heavy hardcover tome, his full basket hanging from the crook of one elbow. Shuffling my feet a bit so he'd know I was there, I reached out and tilted the cover back to see what he was reading. "_The Order of_ . . . Oh, you read _Harry Potter?_" I asked, surprised. I hadn't known that about Jasper, despite the fact that he'd been with us for about six months now. Our family hadn't ever gotten heavily into that series. I'd read the first two, and I was pretty sure Edward and Alice had read all the books before this new one, but neither of them were the type that waited in line for each new release or went around the house randomly screaming spells at the rest of us.

"I, uh . . . yeah, I've read all but this one," Jasper stammered. "I have it on waitlist at the library."

"The next book will be out before you get hold of a copy," I said. I tapped the page he'd been reading. "You want this?"

"Oh, no, sir, I was just looking," he said, his face going slightly red as he hastily placed it back on the rack.

I reached past him and pulled the book forward off the display with my fingertips, letting it fall gently into my hand. I then let the outstretched arm drop naturally onto Jasper's shoulders, pulling him along with me towards the checkout stands. I nudged the book against his chest, and he took it reluctantly. "You don't — " Jasper began, embarrassed.

"Hush."

"I was just looking," he repeated.

"Well, people don't usually look at things they hate, so it probably won't hurt too much to read that," I teased.

Jasper walked beside me in silence for a moment, studying the cover of his new book. "What if I had been 'just looking' at condoms?" he suddenly asked with a sly smile.

"Well, considering the alternative, I'd probably buy those, too," I told him, shuddering. "But . . . really, Jasper, take money from my wallet if you need it, but please don't buy those where I can see you."

Jasper pulled away and stared at me with his mouth open, his face flushing. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" he hissed. "You're supposed to tell me that 'abstinence makes the heart grow fonder' or some such bullshit. You know who I'd be sleeping with if — "

"Stop!" I cried, trying to cover my ears but finding it hard with all the stuff in my hands. Oh, Christ, the idea of my daughter even _thinking_ about . . . "Just — ugh, Jasper, don't talk about that. Please."

"You're saying it's okay if I don't _talk_ about it?" he asked incredulously.

"I'm saying I'd rather you didn't, not until later when you're older, but I can't stop you, and for the love of God, _please_ be careful if you do," I answered.

All our children had been spoken to frankly about sex from the beginning, and as excruciating as it had been for all involved, there had been a 'safe sex' lecture for Jasper and Rose almost immediately after they came to live with us. I knew from my work the _literal_ meaning of 'a stitch in time saves nine' and figured that the other parents' pussyfooting around the subject of sex hadn't done much good, judging by the number of teenagers with malnourished toddlers in tow that trickled into the hospitals I'd worked at. Hard to be healthy when your mother is a 105-pound cheerleader who lives on Swedish Fish and Coke, and when your own version of a home-cooked meal consists of Kraft Mac 'n' Cheese and Tyson's Chik'n Fingers.

"My God, you are so weird," Jasper muttered. "So freaking weird, it's not even funny."

But he was smiling. Not slyly, not like he was planning some kind of orgy with Alice in his head. Not a smirk, like most teenagers give parents that are a little slow catching on, usually accompanied by a roll of the eyes. Just a gentle, contemplative smile as he twisted the book in his hands and watched me. For once, Jasper didn't look wary, or suspicious, or angry. Just . . . happy.

On the drive home, he sat hunched forward in the front seat, intent on his story. I kept glancing over at him, wondering how he'd react if I were to ruffle his hair the way I often did with my other sons. It would be best not to startle him, I thought, so I broke the silence by saying, quietly, "Jasper?"

He looked up warily, and when I reached out toward him, he flinched away, fumbling with his book and nearly dropping it on the floor. But I persisted, and laced my fingers gently through his mess of blond curls before resting my hand at the nape of his neck. Jasper sat rigid in his seat, staring mutely out the windshield at the headlights cutting a path through the rain. But as the minutes ticked by and I only rubbed at his neck and upper back, never startling him by moving too quickly or using too much pressure, Jasper gradually relaxed enough that he opened his book again and flipped through the pages to find where he'd lost his place.

He was still afraid, of course — still thinking that any moment I'd turn on him and hurt him. Perhaps I might even grab his arm and bend it backwards, biting the soft flesh until the blood came as his mother had, leaving crescent-shaped scars behind to mar his pale skin. But still, I wasn't discouraged. I figured that a wall which had been built one brick at a time would have to come down in just the same manner.

* * *

"Daddy?"

Her voice, coming out of nowhere as it did, made me jump about a foot. I hadn't heard so much as a sound as she snuck up behind my chair, where I was enjoying a post-dinner nap. We always joked that Alice had to have been born part fairy, at least, the way she flits about without making a bit of noise. Until she opens her mouth, that is. "What, sweetie?" I managed, though my heart was still pounding away at having my doze interrupted so abruptly.

"Daddy, what's going to happen to Bella?" she asked me softly. Just as I had suspected, the hospitalization of the late Deputy Chief Swan's daughter had not remained a secret for long. Whether a hospital employee or someone down at the police station were at fault was irrelevant at this point. The news had spread like wildfire, and naturally Alice had made the connection between Bella and the girl she'd lately provided with a bag of books and a battered teddy bear.

I gathered my scattered wits and tried to answer her. "Well, she'll be discharged in a few days, and then in the cast for about six weeks," I told my daughter, who was playing with my loosened scarf, holding the ends and leaning back so she floated above the floor. She was so light that it barely put any pressure on the back of my neck at all. "It was a clean break."

"But where's she going to go? You said she ran away from her last family, and her boyfriend hurt her," Alice pressed.

I frowned. "Alice, you know I don't appreciate eavesdropping," I rebuked her sharply. "That conversation was private, and I only confided in Esme because I knew she'd keep it a secret. Bella does not deserve to have her dirty laundry aired by everyone in town." I sighed. "Of course, they'll probably find out anyway." All it would take would be one transcriptionist knocking back too much _vino_ with her bridge group, and the whole of Forks would know exactly what color underwear Bella had on when she was admitted.

Alice looked indignant. "I'm not going to _repeat_ it!" she reprimanded me. "And I wasn't eavesdropping on _purpose._ I was lying under the table doing my homework. Why didn't you check if you wanted to talk to Mom?"

The annoyance was gone, and in its place only mild amusement. It was impossible to be angry with Alice for more than a few moments at a time, as she was such a transparent soul. It was true that her favorite place to study was stretched out under the dining room table, and Esme had even mounted a study lamp for her there. Alice liked to feel safe in her hideaway while still remaining close to the action. The dining room, situated in the 'L' between kitchen and living room, was the perfect place for her. I hadn't, in fact, thought to check under the table first, but that was hardly Alice's fault.

"All right, love, I'm sorry," I soothed her ruffled feathers. "I know you won't repeat what you heard. And as to your question . . . well, I spoke to Bella's caseworker yesterday, and it looks like she'll go back to the group home when she leaves the hospital. They'll try to find a family, but it's probably best to keep her there until she's healed. Less upheaval."

Alice frowned. "They won't help her," she said with certainty. "She'll have to do everything for herself, and how's she supposed to manage the shower? Or the stairs? They're too busy to care. They'll just make her sit in her room all day."

I wanted to reassure Alice that Bella would be treated better, but I don't lie to my children just to spare their feelings. The fact was, I shared Alice's concerns. A broken arm was one thing; a child or teenager didn't need _that_ much help, provided it wasn't their dominant arm, and they could usually manage very well. A broken leg was another matter. Bella would have crutches, of course, but as Alice pointed out, stairs and showers were still dangerous. And some of the group homes were as notoriously understaffed as nursing homes; she'd be faced with a choice of holing up in her bedroom, waiting days just to take a simple shower, or attempting it herself and possibly having another accident.

"Couldn't she come and live here?" Alice asked, interrupting my train of thought. She had started to bounce gently on the arm of the chair, and I watched her, amused at how she could never sit still for a moment at a time. "Please?"

I tried to look surprised, but didn't quite manage it — the thought had actually already crossed my mind, and probably Esme's, too. "Well, I don't know, Alice," I told her carefully. "It's a lot to consider, with the five of you, and — "

"But we have this huge house, Daddy. What's one more person? Mom wouldn't mind, would she? Because I don't think Bella would be any trouble to her. I'll help her with things. She can share my room!" Alice's eyes sparkled. "I'll bring home her homework until she's ready to go to school, and then I can take her around to all her classes. She can be my friend."

Alice, bubbly and energetic, never lacked for company here at home. Everyone loved her . . . except Rosalie. And I knew that Rose's rejection hurt Alice terribly, after she had been so excited about finally getting a sister. But it wasn't that Rose disliked Alice _personally;_ she was wary of everyone except her brother, and Alice's constant cheerfulness seemed to grate on her nerves a bit.

When we had first moved here, with only the three children, they had each had a separate bedroom. The house has five total, so in addition to the kids' rooms and the master bedroom, there was also a guest room for a short while. Then we had found out about the Hale twins from Esme's cousin Charlotte, who works as a paralegal and a CASA volunteer in Seattle. From the moment we met Jasper and Rosalie Hale — the gorgeous Rosalie with that permanent look of poorly disguised fear in her eyes, and her horribly scarred, skittish brother Jasper, both of them so obviously in need of a loving home, Esme and I had known that we could not leave without them. Suddenly, we had to find room for _two_ more.

At first, Rosalie and Alice shared Alice's room, and our daughter was thrilled to pieces to have someone with whom to stay up until the wee hours, talking and fixing each other's hair. Those were Alice's hopes, anyway . . . but even the best-laid plans sometimes fall to wrack and ruin for all that. Rosalie turned out to be very cold and, as Alice told me tearfully, "haughty." We could hardly blame her for her reticence, and what caused me the most conflict was that Alice couldn't know the reasons behind it — I would never betray Rose's confidence that way, even to spare Alice's feelings. I finally had to sit Alice down and explain that sometimes bad things happened to people, horrible things that gave them nightmares and made them very suspicious of other people's intentions. Alice understood, she said, and promised not to press her new sister.

But Rosalie's nightmares, if she had them, were handled in the same silent, brooding manner with which she faced life in general, and we rarely had any evidence of them if so. Jasper was quite another matter. From almost the first night — it probably _would_ have started the first night, though I suspect he didn't actually sleep, not then — our son had woken screaming from dreams that left him drenched with sweat, curled into a tight ball under the covers. He would wail like a banshee if we touched him during these times, and only Alice was permitted to approach him. He seemed to sense that Alice meant no harm, and couldn't cause any even if she did, and allowed her to curl her tiny body protectively around his. Sometimes they stayed that way for hours, sometimes all night — a fact that it would not do to share with anyone outside the family.

Rosalie can be . . . well, it's not that I don't sympathize or understand, but she _can _be a bitch. For all that, though, neither she nor Jasper has ever been the demanding type. So when she came to Esme and me and asked if she could share her brother's room, what could we say? The only reason to refuse would have been reluctance to let a boy and girl room together. There was nothing _wrong_ with it, exactly . . . but Social Services has a tendency to find things wrong in the most unlikely places during a custody dispute. Having the twins share a room might raise questions as to whether we were truly able to take care of five children.

Finally, Emmett stepped forward and said he'd be happy to share with Jasper. He could easily sleep through World War III, never spent any time in his room that could possibly be spent elsewhere, and would be going off to college in a year in any case. So that settled it. Rosalie took Jasper's old room, and there found the solitude she craved.

Alice cried off and on for days over Rosalie's defection, and I couldn't help feeling a little angry at my newest daughter. Alice could be a bit overbearing at times, yes, but she had the sweetest, most generous nature I had ever witnessed in my entire life. After spending four years with only brothers, she had been ecstatic to have a sister, and devastated when her well-intentioned overtures were rejected. So, having failed to bond with Rosalie, it was no wonder the idea of Bella coming here filled her with such joy.

_"Daddy!"_ Alice's voice broke into my thoughts, her tone indicating that she had already had to repeat herself and wasn't at all amused by my inattention. "I don't understand you sometimes. How could you sleep, not knowing if she's being taken care of? How could you eat Mom's wonderful food while Bella gets macaroni and Kool-Aid at the home? How would you feel if she came back in a week 'cause she'd slipped and broken her leg again?" Her brown eyes sparkled with indignation at my insensitivity.

"Alice," I began, once I was sure I could get a word in edgewise, "adopting a child isn't the same as taking in a stray dog. It can't just be decided on a whim. We would have to — "

"I know," Alice interrupted impatiently. "We'd have to ask Mom. _Mom!_" And she was out of the room before I could call her back, had I wanted to. I sighed.

It looked as though we'd be needing a new bed.


	7. Raw Milk

**Bella**

When the door cracked open not long after I'd gotten my lunch tray, I thought it might be Vicki again, back to suck out what little energy she'd left me with the first time around. I threw down my plastic fork with a frustrated sigh. My throat was burning, and every time I coughed, my ribs screamed in protest. My head felt as though someone had inserted an air compressor tube into both ears and turned it on full blast. All I wanted to do was gnaw my way through the tangle of sludge on my tray and then lie back and see how long I could escape having to think about the future by falling asleep.

But I smiled and sat up straight when I saw it was _him_. Not a huge grin or anything; my face still hurt too much. I was happy to have him visit me, though. When he examined me or checked my vitals, he wasn't rough or hurried like some of the nurses (well, except for Mrs. Yorkie), and he talked pleasantly to me at the same time. It had been a while since anyone talked to me without yelling or snapping or just sounding cold and disinterested. Even when I was reading, or trying to sleep, I found myself looking forward to his visits. I liked to think that even though he was just doing his job, he didn't find it unpleasant to drop in on me.

When I'd first seen Dr. Cullen in the Emergency Room, I'd mistaken him for God. He looked exactly like you'd expect Apollo to look, or maybe Zeus — not the ugly one from the Disney movie, but the way he'd really have looked as a 'man' back then. Those lights in the ER were so bright that it looked like the sun was behind him, or that white light they say you see when you have an out-of-body experience.

Or die.

He wasn't God, and I wasn't dead, but that was where the disappointments ended with him. He was the kindest man I'd ever met in my whole life, and no one since my father had paid me so much attention. I'd been in the hospital plenty of times, and I knew it wasn't normal for doctors to do things like take your blood pressure or just stop by to chat. And it _certainly_ wasn't the norm for one of them to sit and brush a girl's hair while he talked. He talked about his family, mostly, but also about other things: movies, camping, places he'd worked, a painting his wife was working on, little tidbits from the news . . . but nothing unpleasant. It was so nice to listen to him, because he hardly ever said anything negative. Most people I know just complain about everything.

When he talked about his own children, there was something in his voice that instantly let me know those kids were his reason for existing. The fact that none of them were his _real_ kids made him seem even more like a god in my mind. Imagine, a family made up completely of teenagers, all former foster children! Dr. Cullen was like Hector the Collector in that Shel Silverstein poem, gathering up the broken kids that everyone else had tossed onto the trash heap and guarding them as jealously as he would the most precious treasures in all the universe.

He'd brought in a little leather 'brag book' and showed me all their pictures. A _brag book,_ like the ones little old ladies carry around to show off their grandbabies, only he was a thirty-three-year-old man and these sure weren't babies. And almost every picture had him in it, or his wife, or both: Dr. Cullen lifting tiny Alice over his head in her leotard and toeshoes; Mrs. Cullen in jeans and a sweater, throwing a Frisbee with Emmett and Jasper at the park; the two of them grinning like jack-o-lanterns over Edward's and Alice's heads at their middle school graduation two and a half years ago.

Middle. School. Graduation.

Well, heck.

"You ought to hear Edward play the piano, Bella," he'd said, pausing at a more recent photo of him and Edward sitting on the porch steps. My heart started to thump when I saw it, and I hoped Dr. Cullen couldn't hear me even though he had his arm around my shoulders. Edward was _beautiful_, with messy, coppery hair and a bemused expression on his face, as though those piercing green eyes were contemplating something wonderful that the rest of us couldn't see. "It isn't just a hobby — Esme and I can both read music, but Edward reaches beyond what's on the page, somehow, and draws something out of it that's almost a physical presence in the room afterwards."

"Is he going to play professionally?" I asked.

"Well, we're not sure. Sometimes he says he doesn't want to, because he's afraid it would make the whole thing into a chore after a while." I felt him shrug. "It doesn't matter so long as he's happy. Being good — or exceptional — at something doesn't necessitate turning it into a profession. I just feel sorry that the world won't get to hear his talent.

"Take Alice," he continued, flipping back to the one of her in her ballet getup. "Ballet is perfect for Alice. She loves to flit around like a little fairy, and it's wonderful exercise. It's really a treat to watch her move. But she's said a hundred times she'd rather be a garbage collector than a professional dancer, what with the torture they have to put their bodies through. She wants to be able to dance her little heart out, decide it's time to quit, and slam the lid on the whole thing until she feels like dancing again. And I can't blame her."

He was the living embodiment of those urban legends young foster kids traded back and forth about the perfect parents that were out there somewhere. Regular kids were scared of the Bogeyman and tried to be good so Santa Claus would come and leave lots of presents. We were scared of just about everyone and tried to be good in case someone like Dr. Cullen came along and adopted us. Older girls like to complain that all the nice guys are either married or gay; we like to complain that all the good parents either have their own kids or want babies and toddlers. Showroom models, in other words.

"Emmett's really into sports," he explained when we came to a picture of his oldest son — the kid was the size of Bigfoot — tackling him in their backyard. "He'll play on any team the school puts together as long as the practices don't conflict, but his real passion is for football. He's hoping for a scholarship." He turned the page, and that's when I saw Rosalie for the first time, standing next to Jasper. The both of them were holding tennis rackets and smiling dutifully for the camera, though neither of their smiles really met their ice-blue eyes. "And this is Rose — Rosalie — Jasper's twin sister."

"She's pretty," I offered, knowing he'd probably appreciate hearing it even though she wasn't really his daughter. But it actually seemed to make him sad, and he got quiet for a minute before he answered.

"She's gorgeous," he finally said, tracing her face in the picture with the tip of his finger. "Esme asked if she'd like to look into modeling — we thought it might give her a little self-esteem boost. I don't know why, but it seems like sometimes the prettiest girls feel that they're the ugliest."

I shuddered. "I wouldn't want to model. Too scary."

He chuckled a bit. "Well, Rose seemed more angry than scared, but I think we both know it's usually the opposite. She said she wasn't a piece of meat to be hung up on some man's wall, blah, blah, blah. For heaven's sake, I didn't mean she should model _nude_. Just school clothes for Sears or something."

He was so kind and obviously loved these kids more than life itself, but I guess there are some things normal people can never understand. "So they like sports, too?" I asked, just to change the subject. Every question I asked meant I had that much more time to snuggle close to him and listen to his voice rumbling deep in his chest. He smelled wonderful, like sandalwood and vanilla. Not candy vanilla like they use for body spray, but as if I'd held up a bottle of extract to my nose and breathed deeply. It should have seemed out of place in a man, but somehow with Dr. Cullen, it didn't.

"Well, not per se. Jasper watches the games, of course, but tennis was something I suggested for stress relief. I used to play in college — not competitively or anything, but just to blow off steam. There's just no feeling in the world like slamming that ball around. You do it for a little while, and it's like you can't even remember why you were mad."

And on it went. Looking at his family was soothing, in a way, because his passionate love for them was so obvious that some of it even seemed to bleed out onto me, and with him perched on my bed with his arm around me, I could even pretend Dr. Cullen was mine for a little while. But it was also excruciating, because inevitably I would remember that these were his kids, and his house, and his perfect life, and once I was discharged, all that would exist separately, and I would never see him again.

He'd left the little book behind by accident — someone paged him, and he said he was sorry, but he'd be back later . . . and scurried away in such a hurry that he forgot his pictures. Later, he came to say goodbye and to tell me he'd be off Tuesday — yesterday — but he didn't think to ask for them back.

I'd gone through the pages of pictures again and again, compulsively, the way a starving person might pore over recipes and imagine eating fresh, hot doughnuts glazed with sticky-sweet icing or baked potatoes with butter and cheese and sour cream. The whole family at the zoo; camping out in the woods next to a stream; Edward at a piano recital; Alice, Emmett, and Edward dressed up for Halloween; Esme at her sewing machine, making a quilt . . . I memorized every detail of their happy faces, to the point where I would have known any of them by sight.

I hoped he would forget that I had it, but then I thought about leaving it on the night table so he'd take it away while I was sleeping. I wanted to keep it and I wanted to hurl it across the room.

Tuesday had been miserable without him. I slept as much as I could just to get through the interminable hours until he came back. I hadn't remembered just how horrible a hospital stay can be without anyone to visit. Mrs. Yorkie came in at eleven, and since I rarely sleep through the night, we got to talk a little. But she wasn't Dr. Cullen, and I didn't really feel better until he came in this morning and spoke to me briefly before morning rounds.

Mr. Yorkie had come in on his way home from work to give me my backpack. I wanted him to tell me that they'd found James, yet I was relieved when he said that there was nothing new to report. I knew if they found him, they'd lock him up in a cold jail cell, and I didn't like to think of him being alone like I was. But the thought that he was still out there and could come back to hurt me at any time made me feel so scared that sometimes I'd lay awake all night — when every footstep in the hall was his, and every shadow, and the noises at the window were him, too, coming to drag me out into the cold night where I'd bleed my last on the frozen snow.

But our relationship was the most serious I'd ever been in, and now I felt as if my tether had been cut. I couldn't imagine where I was supposed to find another guy, especially now that I was so messed up. James was the first who'd ever shown any interest in me beyond casual dating. And I'd be eighteen in just over a year and a half. Sometimes, usually when I lay awake at three in the morning, I panicked at the thought of being on my own with nothing and no one to hold onto, and it felt like I was trying to cross the Grand Canyon on one of those rope bridges with no handrails and nothing below but hard, unyielding rock. But if I were married . . . if I could find some man willing to marry me and take care of things . . . then it wouldn't be so frightening. I had thought that man would be James, and had wasted months with him that were worthless now.

Now I had to start all over.

I was so damn _tired._ Victoria had been in not long after Mr. Yorkie left, bitching me out about Arthur Nylund again as if I hadn't already explained to practically everyone in the state how it was _he_ who threw _me_ out. I know the system is short on foster homes, but what does she want from me? Is it better to give him another kid and hope the same thing doesn't happen twice?

If it weren't for Dr. Cullen, I'd probably just agree to everything she said, if only to get her out of my face so I could have a little peace. But he hammered it into me that under no circumstances am I to let anyone coerce me into changing my story. He said that if I felt I couldn't deal with Victoria or anyone else they might send, to ring until a nurse came in and ask her to page him. I wouldn't do that . . . at least, I don't think I would . . . but somehow, knowing that Dr. Cullen would back me up gave me strength I didn't even know I had, and for the first time since she'd taken my case, Victoria did not emerge the victor.

Anyway, Tuesday was over, Vicki was gone, and now _he_ was back, looking at me with those strange eyes — eyes like tea with a lot of milk mixed in. And smiling at me as though somehow he'd missed me as much as I missed him.

"Hi," I said softly, trying not to let my eyes flicker to the bedside table. I was having one of the moments where I was determined to keep his pictures if I could, take them with me back to the home and pretend that his family had been mine once. I'd tuck the one picture I had of my dad in the front to keep it safe. Dr. Cullen could keep the real-life players; I'd settle for coveting their happy life from afar.

"Hi, yourself." He came into the room, and I started to move over a little, hoping he was going to sit and talk to me now. But he came around the other side of the bed instead, the one where the rolling tray was. I stopped, embarrassed that I'd been so presumptuous when he was probably still too busy to talk.

"You won't be needing this," he said with an odd smile, whisking my tray out from under my nose and heading out the door with it before I could even register what had happened. I stared at the door in shock, unable to believe that he had just done that.

My nose started to tingle, and my eyes were prickling with angry tears. How dare he take my food away? Did he think I wouldn't say anything just because he'd been nice before, sitting and talking with me and letting me admire his perfect family? Because even though it scared me somewhat, the thought of making him angry . . . well, if he were going to throw away my food, I'd open my mouth and scream until they all came running, letting them think a patient was being tortured right under their noses, and I'd raise such a fuss that they'd give me two trays before it was over.

He came back through the door then, carrying what looked like a big blue softpack cooler (but longer and thinner) under one arm and smiling as he came over to the bed. I was still staring at him in shock, and probably looked angry by then, but he didn't seem to notice. He laid the big rectangular bag on the bed next to my good leg and unzipped it. Suddenly, a wonderful smell hit my nostrils and made my mouth start to water, and before I could say a word, he was slipping a glass dish of food onto my bed tray.

Real food. Not like what he'd snatched out from in front of me, which could have been leftovers scavenged from the garbage bin compared to the feast I was now looking at. "What is this?" I asked him softly, wondering if it were some kind of joke. Maybe he'd let me look at it and then take it away, tell me I couldn't eat until I'd done the rest of my chores like I was supposed to or something. Maybe that made sense, and maybe it didn't. The medication and my empty stomach were starting to make me dizzy.

"My wife sent it for you. She's a firm believer that patients would get well twice as quickly if they didn't have to eat hospital food." He laughed, showing those gleaming white teeth again. "I can't say I disagree."

"Why'd she send _me_ food?" I asked suspiciously, though I was eyeing the tray hopefully as I imagined how good everything would taste. I hadn't had a home-cooked meal in ages, and this was . . . well, I hadn't had anything like _this_ in . . . probably ever. My mouth watered so fast that I almost started to drool onto my nightgown.

There was a whole turkey breast covered in thick brown gravy with mushrooms, and next to it a huge pile of carrot coins. And not like the canned ones that were too smooth and too bright an orange to be believable as vegetables. No, these were a very rich, dark pumpkin color, and you could see the rough, raw surface through the glistening butter and parsley flakes that covered them. My mouth puckered as I thought how good they'd taste. And mashed potatoes. _Real_ mashed potatoes, not the smooth, nondescript mound from the hospital kitchen that looked like it'd been spooned onto the tray with an ice-cream scoop, but uneven and lumpy with the red skins sticking out, just how I liked them best. I could practically _smell_ the butter.

"Because most of my other patients don't have teeth," Dr. Cullen answered me, sounding a little exasperated. "Because you're our kids' age, and you're alone, and Esme couldn't stand the thought of you going hungry, sweetie."

"Oh," I answered meekly. I hadn't meant to offend him — I just couldn't understand why his wife would go to all that trouble for someone she'd never met. "Sorry."

Dr. Cullen was unzipping his own bag, revealing a dish identical to my own, and he set it next to me on the bed before going to fetch one of the metal and vinyl chairs in the room. Finally, he took out a glass container that had to be milk, though it had no markings on the glass. He shook the bottle vigorously while grabbing one of the paper cups off my night table, then popped the lid up with his thumb and poured the thick cream-colored liquid out. It looked different, somehow, than the stuff that came out of the little cartons from the hospital kitchens. Probably whole milk, which I loved the taste of.

"This is raw milk, Bella," he said as he poured, as if answering my thoughts. "It might taste a little odd to you, but it's very healthy."

"_Raw_ milk?" I asked, not sure I'd understood. "You mean, like, straight from the udder?"

"Well, basically."

"Isn't that . . . dangerous?" I'd never really thought about it before, but . . . no one drank milk straight from the cow, did they?

"Not in the slightest. No one has ever gotten ill only from drinking raw milk. In fact, pasteurization kills the enzymes that would normally destroy any harmful bacteria in the milk, so it's actually safer this way. Not to mention healthier. Drinking the stuff they sell in the supermarket is about as healthy as drinking Crystal Light." Dr. Cullen paused for breath. "No, scratch that. With Crystal Light, you're getting artificial sweeteners." He gave me a tight smile. "I'll give you my artificial sweetener rant some other time."

I looked dubiously at the cup he handed me. I really didn't want to drink it; the very thought made my stomach clench. But it would be terribly rude not to at least try it. And he _was_ a doctor, after all . . . if it was good enough for his family . . .

I took a tiny sip and waited for the gag reflex to kick in. It did taste a little strange, I'll admit . . . but then again, milk always tastes off for a while if you switch from two percent to skim, or skim to whole. And it wasn't horrible, just a little different. I gave him a tentative smile. "It's good."

"It's good _for_ you, Bella. I wouldn't let my kids touch store milk."

"Where do you get this?" I wondered. _Please tell me you don't keep cows in your shed._ Nothing about him would surprise me at this point, though.

"There's a dairy farm up at La Push that's licensed to sell it." Dr. Cullen handed me a fork and knife wrapped in a cloth napkin, as though we were at some fancy restaurant. "Start eating now, and I'll also spare you my lecture on the government's war against raw milk."

_Do I look like the type to take the government's side in _anything? I wanted to ask. But the smell of food had tortured me long enough, and I didn't need threats or promises to convince me to shut up and dig in.

* * *

Dr. Cullen watched me intently even as he ate his own meal. I tried not to scarf my food, but it was so good that I just wanted to cram as much into my mouth as I could and hold it there, letting the delicious flavors soak into my tongue and cheeks and throat as long as possible before swallowing. The milk tasted even better once it was being swallowed between bites of food. For the first time since I could remember, I thought I might actually be full without cleaning my plate.

"Taste good, baby?" Dr. Cullen asked.

"It's wonderful," I breathed. "It's . . . real." I didn't know how else to explain it, but he seemed to understand perfectly.

His next question was so out of context that I never would have expected it in a million years. "How would you like to come and stay with our family, Bella?" he said.

Luckily, I didn't have anything in my mouth at that moment, or I would have choked on it, and who knows where the conversation would have gone then? I did drop my fork, though, and it fell with a loud clatter against the glass bottom of the dish. "_Stay_ with you?" I squeaked. My head was whirling as I tried to understand what he meant by it. "You mean . . . like, instead of the group home?"

"Well, yes . . . but also instead of another foster family," he explained. "I spoke with your caseworker this afternoon, and then with the director in Seattle. While there were a few raised eyebrows at us taking in a sixth child, they're not going to discourage it."

They were probably glad to be rid of me, I thought disgustedly, my heart still pounding away from shock. The real question was how Dr. Cullen could even stand to be around me after hearing what Victoria undoubtedly had to say on the subject. She had an ingenious way of presenting me to prospective families that didn't necessarily send them away screaming, but encouraged them to treat me like a criminal in lockup from the get-go. "Barring anything unexpected, you're set to be discharged on Friday. You can come home with me after my shift," he said, toying with his napkin.

I looked at him suspiciously. "Why me?" I asked. "You already have all those kids. They won't like me crowding them. And soon I'll be aged out anyway."

He stared at me a moment before answering. "Any other reasons?" His tone was light and teasing, but still I felt sick all of a sudden. I shouldn't have told him those things. If he hadn't already thought of them, he might now, and he might change his mind. In any case, I probably sounded horribly ungrateful, and I should have known better. A lot of 'parents' go into this because they like the feeling of being some poor kid's savior. You have to go along with it or they get all upset and just forget the whole thing. I shook my head mutely, cursing my unfailing stupidity.

But if Dr. Cullen were angry or offended, he didn't show it. "Well, as to the . . . second question," he began, "we do have five right now, but where five can eat, so can six. At least, that's what my wife said when I spoke to her." _I'll just bet. You probably didn't even ask her._ I'd learned the hard way that the decision to take in a foster kid, whether for the first time or the sixth, was often a unilateral one.

"You'll fit in perfectly with our kids. Alice, for one, was ecstatic at the thought of having another girl around. She nagged at Esme and me until we had to make a decision last night. Jasper likes whatever makes Alice happy, Rose follows Jasper's lead, and Edward and Emmett couldn't care less how many people are in the house. They've all been in your situation, sweetie, and none of them would ever begrudge you a home." _Uh-huh. How long have you been fostering, again?_

"And as to your age, Bella, that doesn't matter to us in the slightest. You've another year and a half until you're eighteen, and then there's college to think of. In the meantime, you need a home just as much as a younger girl, and a place to come home _to_ if you decide later that you'd rather be on your own.

"Finally," he continued, and I could feel his eyes boring into me as I stared at my fork, "you asked, 'Why me?' Well, why not? But if you need an answer, it's that I think you're a sweet girl who hasn't been dealt a very good hand. I'd like to see what you're capable of once you're not under so much stress. I know you'll get along well with our family, and I'll be very sad if you say no."

The strangest part about the whole thing was that I believed him. Hallmark saccharine as his last sentiment had been, I think he honestly meant it, and that made me pause. I couldn't remember _any_ of my prospective 'families' giving a rat's ass whether I came to their house or not.

"Now, with five other kids, you'll have to share a room, of course," Dr. Cullen went on, "but you'll always have plenty to eat and enough of everything you need. Esme and I don't believe in spoiling our children, but we aren't stingy — particularly with our time, which is completely free. That much is as available as the air you breathe. If you need one of us, just open your mouth. Sound reasonable?"

Of course it sounded reasonable, just as any car deal sounds reasonable while you're sitting there listening to the hypnotic drone of the salesman's voice as he takes you through the features and benefits and completely forgets to mention the flood the car went through.

Still, what reason could someone like Dr. Cullen have for trying to reel me in? I wasn't any prize. If foster parents were the 'buyers,' then the system was a permanent buyer's market. I guess what I was really afraid of was that I was some kind of curiosity for these people. He said Alice had nagged at them, the way a young kid might nag about getting a new puppy. What if they were doing this to placate her, or even because they genuinely felt sorry for me, but then after a little while they sent me back like the others?

But what difference did it make, at that? What if he _did_ get tired of me? It could just as easily happen with whomever else they dug up, and if I left it to chance, what were the odds of getting people that even pretended to be as nice as Dr. Cullen?

I thought of those pictures again, and that sealed it for me. Instead of salivating over _pictures_ of happy people like a kid with her nose pressed against the toy store window, I could meet them all in person and find out what made them look so happy all the time. Screw what happened later.

My mouth was so dry that at first I couldn't speak, and had to clear my throat and wet my lips before I could answer him. Dr. Cullen poured out the rest of the milk for me and watched while I drank it, his expression gentle and his posture relaxed as he waited for my response.

"Yes, please," I finally whispered.

He smiled. "Then it's settled. Now you just focus on getting well." Reaching out, he took my tray — this time, there was no furious stab of anger, as I had eaten all I could hold — and with his other hand, he softly stroked my cheek, _very_ softly because of the bruise there, and I was just so overwhelmed by everything that before I could stop them, I felt the tears welling up in my eyes and spilling down my cheeks, one after another until I was afraid they might never stop.

"Now, none of that," he murmured, wiping them away with his thumbs. "You've done enough crying."

But I couldn't help it — when I opened my mouth to tell him I was sorry, all that came out was a wail that I had to press my hand to my mouth to stifle. I felt like turning over and burying my face in the pillow so he couldn't watch me fall apart, but my damned leg wouldn't let me. And the huge breath I had to take to get over that made my whole stomach feel like it was full of shards of broken glass.

"I'm sorry," I choked out. "I – I just . . . I didn't expect this, and now my ribs are hurting, and I'm sorry if I don't sound happy, but — "

But Dr. Cullen was smiling. "Bella," he chided me softly, hugging just my head so he wouldn't hurt me. His voice was muffled through the cocoon he created around my eyes and ears. "You know better than that." He held me that way for a long time before leaving, and I felt safe enough to cry for a few minutes once I knew I wouldn't be heard.

It was only when he'd almost reached the door that I remembered my manners. "Thank you, Dr. Cullen."

"'Carlisle' is fine, hon," he said, pausing in the doorway. "And you'll call my wife 'Esme.' If you call her 'Mrs. Cullen,' I fear for your safety."

"Okay," I whispered. "Um . . . could I maybe give you a note for . . . for Esme? To thank her for the food?" She might like that better than if I just told him to thank her, and I wanted her to like _me._ I'd find out soon enough if he'd been lying about her wanting me to come, but I was starting to think maybe I'd been wrong. Even with all those kids and her job and hobbies, she'd still thought enough of me to send me a wonderful lunch. I tend to be a pretty lousy judge of people sometimes. I hoped he wouldn't think I was just trying to suck up, because I really was grateful to Esme. To _both_ of them.

"Of course you can, Bella." His eyes were soft. "I think she'd really like that." He smiled. "See you later."

And after he was gone, I settled back against my pillows, full to bursting with turkey and potatoes and carrots, and waited to wake up.


	8. Hinged in the Middle

**Alice**

My dad can be very silly sometimes.

He's a brilliant man, and so kind, and I can practically feel his love for all of us radiating from him like the warmth of the sun. But he's just silly.

I was watching from the front window as he went around Bella's side of the car. Bella had already opened it and was swinging her legs out. Now, I know it's not smart for her to try and get out by herself — Dad should pull her a bit away from the car and get her steady on her crutches, at least.

And I get that he's worried she'll go sprawling with those crutches. It snowed yesterday, and we may have missed a patch or two with the driveway salt. But he didn't have to carry her up the walk, for heaven's sake. Skinny as she is, she's still pretty tall to be carried anywhere, and her ribs must be killing her. And doesn't Daddy think _he_ might fall, considering he's carrying a teenager? He should have used the wheelchair.

I shook my head sorrowfully at everyone's silliness and yanked the front door open. Bella's head jerked up in surprise, and she blushed when she saw me. I noted with distaste the old, frayed sweatshirt and scrub pants she was wearing — probably nothing else would fit over her cast. Her good foot was encased in a worn sneaker, and the other had about four socks on it. _Oh, we are going to do something about her clothes. Mark my words._

"Hi, Bella!" I chirped, bouncing on the balls of my feet. Regardless of how she was dressed, I was so excited that she was finally _here._ I was going to have a sister! One that, hopefully, wouldn't ask to be moved out of my room so she could sit alone and sulk all the time. A sister I could talk to, and dress up, and share my secrets — which, admittedly, were few — with, as well.

And she was pretty. Her skin was very pale, and with her dark hair, she looked kind of like Snow White. Not the Disney one, but like you imagine Snow White when you read the fairy tale. Her cheeks were sunken and stained with the greenish yellow of fading bruises, _and_ there were those horrible sutures on a cut on her forehead, but all that would heal. Hopefully, the cut wouldn't leave a scar.

Bella's hair was a pretty color, but it was really limp, and the ends were all split. I'd have to talk her into letting me trim it for her, and maybe do some deep conditioning. But I knew a few weeks of Mom's cooking would bring some shine back to her hair and fix the overall gauntness that made me her look like a scarecrow.

Daddy nimbly climbed the front steps, and I ran up to the living room so I wouldn't be in his way, and from there up to the second floor. The others were in the living room, but I thought it was best to get Bella settled before we inflicted ourselves upon her _en masse._ He followed me up and sat Bella on the top step, telling her, "I'll be right back with your crutches, honey." And then he was gone, the door closing on the frigid weather outside, though I could feel the cold air creeping up the stairs from its having being open.

"Bella, I'm Alice," I said, settling companionably next to her on the step. I kept my voice deliberately low so that I wouldn't call everyone's attention to us. I know I can be too loud sometimes. I just get so excited that I can't help squealing about things.

"Hi," Bella whispered, staring down at her cast. Her face was pink, and her eyes kept flickering towards the base of the stairs, as though afraid everyone was going to rush her suddenly.

"They won't come up," I said in a conspiratorial tone. "Daddy told us not to bother you tonight because it's your first night. Except me, of course, because you're sharing my room and I know everything."

Bella didn't smile, exactly, but the corners of her mouth quirked up. I heard the front door open and close again, and then Daddy was climbing the stairs with Bella's things, so I got up and made room for him to pass me.

Daddy set the crutches against the wall and the bags on the floor, then gently hoisted Bella to her feet and held her while she got steady on the crutches. "All right, baby?" he murmured. Bella nodded.

"It's the room right past the bathroom on the right side," I told her. I turned around as Daddy started to follow us with Bella's backpack and my canvas tote. "I'll get those, Dad!" I said, jamming my fingers under the straps to take them from him.

"You sure, love?" Daddy asked, surprised.

"I'm going to show Bella where she'll sleep and get her settled," I explained.

Dad smiled at me and ruffled my hair. "Well, I'll be downstairs, helping with dinner," he said. "Call me if you need anything."

"Yes, Daddy, it's always such a help to Mom when you stand there and watch her cook," I said indulgently, rolling my eyes at Bella, who was waiting uncertainly for someone to tell her what to do. "Go on, Bella." Silly, just like I said.

I trailed behind Bella as she hobbled into my room — _our_ room, I corrected myself, feeling a surge of happiness at the thought of having a sister I could share something with — and then ran past her once she was inside so I could help her onto the bed. "Come on," I told her, pointing to all the pillows I'd piled up, including two for under her cast. "This is where you'll sleep. I'll help you get all settled, and we can talk." I dropped her bags next to the dresser, then turned around, ready to help Bella.

Bella stood still in the middle of the room and looked around, her forehead furrowing. "I thought this was your room," she said, sounding uncertain.

"It is. Well, our room."

"But . . . where will you sleep, then?" she asked, confused.

I turned around and pointed at the little sofa. "There," I said. "It's a fold-out bed." When I turned back, Bella looked absolutely horrified.

"I didn't know — I didn't mean to — " she stammered. "I'd better sleep on the couch. I didn't know I'd be taking your bed." She looked like she might cry any second.

I rushed over and wrapped my arms around Bella, nearly knocking her over . . . and probably bruising those ribs. I winced and let go immediately. "Oh, sorry! No, Bella, I _wanted_ you to share my room. Mom's going to get us another bed, don't worry! And I don't mind sleeping on the sofa bed for now. Sometimes I do it anyway, just to stir things up a bit. God. Just relax."

"You really don't mind?" she asked me hesitantly.

"Of course not! This is going to be so much fun. We'll do our homework together — Daddy says you'll be out of school for a while, so I'll help you keep up — and do each other's hair and talk at night. I'm so happy you're here, really." Her face was now about the color of a brick. "Come on, get up on the bed."

Bella crutched over to the bed and turned awkwardly around so she could sit down. I took her crutches and leaned them up against the wall for her, then hopped on the quilt so I could pull her backwards. It took some maneuvering, but finally we got Bella settled back against my pillows, with the two extra ones propping up her leg. I arranged myself cross-legged next to her and gave her a big smile.

"You really got lucky this time, Bella," I announced conspiratorially. "Our parents are the best people in the world. No matter what you had to go through, it's over now. They take such good care of us."

"What happened to your real parents?" Bella inquired softly. I expected the question — it was the old foster-child version of "What are you in for?" Jasper had wanted to know, Rose probably did but was too proud to ask, and even Maggie . . . but I didn't like to think of Maggie.

"Carlisle and Esme _are_ my real parents," I replied matter-of-factly. "As to my _biological _parents . . . well, I was sick," I admitted. "They didn't know what was wrong with me, because I'd have these weird blank periods and hear things they couldn't hear. And I had the dreams. So they said they couldn't deal with it, and they gave me up to the state."

"They just abandoned you?" Bella sounded incredulous, which I thought was rather odd. It happened all the time, didn't it? And hadn't her mother pretty much done the same thing?

"I guess my father claimed he couldn't afford to have me treated, and said the stress was too much for them," I said. "That's what I overheard, anyway; I don't know. I don't remember much about that."

"How old were you?" Bella asked.

"Eight when they gave me up, and eleven when Mom and Daddy adopted me." I smiled. That was my happiest memory. Actually, all my memories had been happy since I came into this family — except what happened to Maggie. But standing out from it all, like a shining beacon, was the day I'd come to live with Mom and Daddy and Edward. Strange, really, because back then I was so whacked out on the pills that almost everything else is a blur. And I didn't know, then, that they were adopting — to me, it was just another home, and I'd have counted myself lucky not to get smacked silly whenever the medication made me act weird. Or wore off completely.

"How did they end up getting you?"

"I was in a hospital down in Biloxi — that's where I was born," I explained. "Daddy heard about me from one of my doctors. I don't remember him, but evidently he liked me, and they'd studied together at Columbia. So Mom and Daddy decided they wanted me to come and live with them, and he flew back down and brought me home."

Because they already had Edward, Mom had stayed home to watch him while Carlisle flew back to Mississippi. I remember the plane ride, though it's kind of fuzzy. But by the time we'd gotten to their house in Chicago, my medication had worn off enough that I could take notice of my surroundings. Although I'm not convinced I could forget the first sight of Mom even if I'd been doped to capacity.

The minute the car pulled into the driveway, Mom came running over. She was absolutely glowing, yanking my door open so she could pick me up and squeeze me so hard I thought my ribs would crack. "I'm so glad you're here, Alice," she'd murmured into my hair. "Edward! Come meet Alice!" And I remember being so touched, because the rest of them called me 'Mary' or 'Mary Alice' since that was on my file. Mom, as I found out, had questioned my caseworker relentlessly about me. She didn't find out much — Mrs. Tuttle, like most social workers, had so many kids she could barely keep the names straight — but she did know that I liked fried chicken, and that's what she made for dinner that first night, and that I liked green, all shades of it, so she had all kinds of green clothes for me, all laid out on my bed.

I had my own bed. I hadn't always been so lucky. But I'd suddenly had my own room, all to myself. And the clothes were so nice, all soft cottons and twills, with new socks and underwear instead of the ratty stuff I was used to making do with. That all went straight into the garbage a couple days later. By then, Dad had me on a lower dose of medication — he eventually got me off it altogether, but you can't just rip someone off prescription meds cold turkey — and I remember hoping, as I dropped the bag in the trash, that I was throwing away the bad part of my life and starting a whole new one. That's why I like new clothes so much; I feel like I'm starting over fresh and can even be a whole different person in them if I want to.

"Did you ever find out what was wrong?" Bella asked.

I cocked my head. "Well, yes and no. I mean, the hospital diagnosed me, but then Dad disagreed and had me taken elsewhere. So . . . it's complicated."

Bella was eyeing me again. I hid a smile, knowing what she was thinking, but I didn't help her out this time. I kind of wanted to see where she'd take it.

"Um . . . are you feeling better now, though?"

If she hadn't added in the 'feeling,' I might have tortured her some more. Made her think I was dangerous, just to watch her squirm as I tried not to laugh. But I realized that while Bella might be worried about how I'd act, she also seemed to care if _I_ were all right. If I were happy and healthy. And that almost made me want to cry, because most people would only care about themselves. So I showed mercy.

"I'm fine now. See, most doctors just know what they learned in school. But . . ." I leaned in closer to Bella as if I were about to share something secret with her. And, granted, it isn't something I'd ever share outside the family, but everyone in the house knows. I just liked the scene we were creating. I liked feeling as if we were sisters sharing secrets. "Daddy has a really open mind. He took me to this friend of his who's a psychic consultant with the FBI — that was when we lived in Virginia, near Quantico — and she said I have some psychic ability."

Bella's eyes widened. "You can . . . like, read minds?" she breathed.

I shook my head. "No, not like that. It's not like psychics in movies that are, like, omniscient. But a lot of times I can sense things that are about to happen, and sometimes I have dreams that turn out to be true. And I can hear people talking sometimes. The psychiatrists thought I was nuts, or whatever the clinical term is, but it's not too unusual. The psychic called it 'clairaudience.' She thinks I might have lost a lot of my abilities out of fear — my mind saw how freaked out people got, so it stopped working that way. And the medications I was on probably fried my brain to within an inch of sanity. Good thing Daddy got me when he did and stopped them."

"He doesn't give you anything?" Bella was skeptical. "Isn't that . . . dangerous?"

"Oh, he doesn't believe in drugs. Not like that. He doesn't mind if it's temporary, like the ones you'll probably be taking for pain, but to put someone on a program of them indefinitely? No way." I shook my head emphatically. "Daddy says most doctors just want the patient out of their face, and the pharmaceutical companies just want everyone to be sick forever so they can make money."

Bella was giving me that look again. I gave her a reassuring smile and settled down next to my new sister. I gave her a squeeze, trying not to be hurt when she got all tense. Rosalie hadn't liked it, either. She complained that I was a nutcase, and asked if she could share her brother's room instead. That really hurt me, because I only wanted to be her friend. But Daddy told me, carefully so he wouldn't hurt my feelings, that I do come on a little strong for most people. So I tried to be understanding when Rose moved into her own room.

"Mom and Daddy are the most wonderful people. You'll see. I don't mind at all having been sick or being abandoned if it means I get to live here," I told Bella, fingering the edge of her sweatshirt.

Bella looked away, and I realized I was probably making her uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Bella. Daddy told me not to push you too much, but I'm just so glad you're here. Rose never wants to talk to me, so it's almost like I'm the only girl sometimes."

"It's okay," she murmured, in that tone of voice that told me she'd said the same thing a thousand times in her life, and only truly meant it once or twice.

"They'll probably talk to you tomorrow about the rules and chores and stuff," I said. "Mostly they're cool, but there are things — like bedtime — that you don't mess with. But it's just so we'll be healthy."

"How about food?" Bella asked faintly. I pitied her. I wondered how many homes she had to have been in where food was scarce to make it her first real question about our family.

"Oh, you can eat anything you want. They won't care. Well, that's not completely true," I amended. "They both insist on family meals. You need a really good excuse to get out of it, like Emmett's football practice, or if Daddy has to stay late for a patient. He only does it when he has to. So, kind of going along with that, if you're hungry before lunch or dinner, they want you to just take an apple or something so you can still eat regular. Mom works really hard on our menus. And we're _really_ not supposed to have candy or junk. We get dessert, like fruit salad or pie or even ice cream. But not much sugar. Don't worry, though, Bella, because there's so much good food. I never go hungry." I looked down and picked at the blanket. "I was hungry a lot at my last home. I don't remember much, but I remember that." The way my stomach used to hurt so badly that I thought it would shrivel up like a raisin, and how sometimes we'd wait all day just for a little bread or soup that didn't do much more than awaken the sleeping dragon in our stomachs. Getting just enough food to start the stomach up without actually satiating it is worse than just not eating at all, as far as I'm concerned.

Bella lay quiet, waiting for more information. I knew how she felt. It was always a lot easier to hear everything laid out at once, so you knew how to stay out of trouble . . . or, if it were impossible to do that, a little warning was still better than getting blindsided. That's exactly how I'd felt when I first came here. "Our family's all really nice," I assured her. "Emmett likes to tease everyone, but he's got such a sweet temper. You can't make him mad. Jasper's . . . well, I guess he and Rose went through a lot with their mother. He's told me some things, but kind of in confidence. You don't want to startle him or get in his space. Same with Rosalie. They're both a little"

_(nuts)_

"skittish, but they've calmed down a _lot_ since they came here."

Bella was starting to look overwhelmed. "I just can't believe there are so many of you," she marveled. "And your parents are only getting paid for two?"

All right, that made me mad. Those were fighting words. "What kind of question is that?" I asked indignantly. "You think Mom and Daddy do this for _money?_"

Bella immediately realized that she'd said something wrong. "I'm sorry," she answered hastily. "I – I didn't mean it that way. I just wondered how they could afford everything. I got told a lot that the state doesn't pay nearly enough, and they're not getting _any_ if they adopted you."

"Neither are any parents who have so-called _real_ kids," I retorted bitterly. Bella's face was tight, as though she were trying not to cry. I felt bad for snapping at her, because she'd only been here twenty minutes and couldn't know yet that this home was different . . . but it really got under my skin to hear her talking about Mom and Daddy like they weren't spending more on just Rose and Jasper's _therapy_ than the state bothered to supply them with for _everything_.

Bella looked past me at the wall beside the dresser, and I could tell that she was trying to detach herself from what was happening. And I wanted to hug her again and tell her I understood, but I was still pretty angry. So instead, I crawled to the end of the bed and slid off, mumbling, "I'll unpack your stuff for you."

Bella didn't answer. I lifted her bookbag onto the bed and unzipped it, surprised that she had nothing else. Maybe her other things were still at that guy's house she'd run away from. I hoped he hadn't thrown them away, because that's about the worst thing you can do to a foster kid. When you're being tossed from home to home, you only hold onto the things that are most important to you, so their loss is the same as a normal person having their whole house burn down.

I put Bella's clothes in the dresser drawers I'd cleaned out especially for her — they hardly took up any room — then noticed a tin at the bottom, one of those purple tins that hold those Dansk butter cookies. It had to be Bella's treasure box. I took it out carefully and set it on the dresser top; Bella could move it later, and when she wasn't around, I'd go through it. I'm pretty nosy by nature, and it's fascinating to see what people find important enough to keep in a treasure box. Finally, I put her empty bag in the closet and rescued Tufty from the canvas tote. The books could wait.

"Thank you." It was the first time she'd spoken since I started putting away her things, and her voice was hesitant. "It was nice of you to loan me your bear. It made me feel better having something to hold."

If she hadn't added that last part on, I was still crabby enough that I might have said that it certainly _was_ nice. Bella would laugh — _anyone_ might laugh — if they knew how hard it was for me to lie in bed every night, even just for a week, without Tufty. He was my friend. Eleven at night and four in the morning are the witching hours, according to Esther Marks, the psychic back in Virginia. That was when I sometimes heard the voices if I happened to be awake. It was a lot less scary now that I knew what was happening, but no one can just hear things out of the darkness and not feel a little afraid. I tried to hug a pillow — what was Tufty but an oddly shaped pillow, after all? — but it didn't work. My mind had, over the years, given Tufty a personality that made it impossible to accept any substitutes.

"You're welcome, Bella." I opened the closet again and retrieved something from one of the shelves. Turning, I walked over to the bed and handed it to her, still cradling Tufty under one arm. "Here. Your own Tufty." Mom and I had picked it out yesterday after school, downtown in that little toy store that sold handmade wooden tops and models of ships that had about twenty thousand pieces. No Wal-Mart bear for Bella.

"Oh . . ." Bella looked surprised, but also very relieved. Probably she hadn't been looking forward to sleeping in a new place with nothing to keep her company. "Thank you. I . . . thanks so much." She took him — her? — from me and nuzzled the soft fur under her chin.

"What are you — "

"Alice! Dinner!"

Daddy's voice was gentle and not too loud, muffled as it was by the closed door, but Bella still jumped. She was definitely a bundle of nerves. But then, she was probably dreading going where she had to face a whole bunch of strangers.

Mom opened the door then, smiling at Bella as she and Daddy walked in. "Hi, sweetheart," she said amiably, coming over to the bed. "I'm Esme."

"Hi," Bella answered, toying with her bear's arm. "Um, I — I really appreciate that you're letting me stay here."

Mom patted Bella's hair, fingering the dry, limp strands. I hoped she was thinking what I had: that Bella needed some serious spa treatments. "You're very welcome here, Bella. I hope you're hungry." Letting go of Bella's hair, she gently lifted her injured leg from the pillow and helped her turn so she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Daddy picked her up, carefully, and Mom stroked Bella's back a few times as she tried to get in a position where her ribs weren't being pressed. Mom is a very touchy-feely type, and she really can't keep her hands to herself if one of us is in her reach. That doesn't go over too well with either Rose or Jasper, which is sad, because they really need a mother right now.

We made an odd procession down the stairs to the kitchen: Daddy carrying Bella like a toddler, carefully getting his footing on each step before putting his weight down; Mom trying not to get in his way but unable to keep from reaching out to Bella, touching her elbow, her skinny wrist, and the side of her face; and me, trailing behind with the crutches, but handing them to Mom and running ahead at the end so I could make sure Bella sat next to me at the table.

"You'll sit here, Bella," I told her firmly, yanking the chair out as Daddy and Bella came in, Bella using her crutches now that she was past the stairs. "See? There's a padded stool for your leg under the table. I'll help." She crutched herself over to the chair and awkwardly sat down, and I took her crutches and propped them in the corner. Then I hunkered down under the table and very carefully eased her leg up onto the stool. "There."

"Thanks," Bella whispered, turning red again as she tried to get comfortable. She kept her head down as everyone else filed in and took their seats, not making eye contact with anyone. She took my hand and Daddy's while he said grace, but her hand was sweaty and shook a little. I gave her an extra squeeze before we let go and started to pass the food around, trying to make her feel better.

I imagine Bella was uncomfortable at being around so many strangers, but we all knew how to act by now. No one talked to her, except Daddy to ask her, quietly, how much of a given dish she'd like on her plate, and me, just as quietly, to tell her little things like which of Mom's dishes were especially good. It didn't seem to bother her much, since the others were talking and couldn't have heard. After a while, when it became clear that no one was going to harass Bella or put her on the spot, she appeared to relax a little. Everyone had lots to say about how their own day had gone; even Jasper volunteered that he'd dissected a frog in Biology earlier.

"It was practically frozen," he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "And it smelled godawful."

"It's a dead frog, man," Edward muttered. "It's not going to smell like flowers."

"That's the formaldehyde," Daddy offered. "It's the same stuff they use to embalm humans and preserve new clothes, which is why we don't let you wear anything new until it's been washed."

"Is that what that smell is?" Rosalie asked, surprising all of us. She hardly ever talked at the table. "I hate that smell. It gives me a headache."

And off went Daddy on one of his tangents, cursing the commercial industry and explaining how Wal-Mart was going to end up taking over the world. I liked listening to him — unlike some people, even Daddy's complaints never sound bitter or whiny. With him, it's more of a "This is what's going on, and this is what our family is going to do to avoid it" kind of thing. One of the 'fathers' I'd been placed with right after my biological parents got rid of me had been an ardent conspiracy theorist, believing that the crows in the yard were animatronic government spy satellites sent to keep tabs on his behavior, and when he'd get going, the hatred would spread through the room like jellyfish tentacles — invisible, but long and ropy and poisonous.

It was my turn to clear the table, but I asked Jazz if he'd do it for me so I could go upstairs with Bella. Mom and Daddy like us all to stay in the living room, or possibly the den if two of us want to watch different things on TV, but they knew Bella needed to ease into our huge family a little slower than that, so Daddy dutifully carried her back upstairs before heading down to his favorite chair.

I was over being miffed with my new sister about the money comment. I knew it wasn't her fault. I think some little part of me wanted to forget the whole thing right at first, but also felt like Bella wouldn't comprehend the gravity of her misconception if I didn't make her squirm. I wonder if Mom or Daddy ever feel that way with us. Maybe that's why they're so easygoing at most times but seem unreasonably strict at others.

Dinner in our family usually lasts an hour or close to it, because we mostly do more talking than eating, so I only had a couple of hours to talk with Bella before we both had to start getting ready for bed. Not that I had any trouble talking that long, but I'm not sure how much she really retained out of all the family and school gossip, camping tips, subtle hints about what the other kids would be wearing, and in-depth critiques of all our teachers. She was looking overwhelmed again.

That didn't stop her, however, from noticing that I'd made an oversight. "You didn't tell me about Edward," she said, with a nonchalance that even I could tell was forced. "What's he like?"

I grinned. So Bella was interested in Edward, was she? I could have fun with her . . . but then again, maybe she'd be perfect for him. He'd always been kind of a loner, busy with his music and all, but I figure he probably has a lot of love to give the right girl someday. Bella could be that girl. "Well, Edward's kind of sulky, but he'll do anything for you. When I first came home — that was in Chicago — he was pretending he was an English lord, showing me around his manor, right? And afterwards, he's saying, all clipped-like_,_ 'And if there is _anything_ I might do to make your stay here more comfortable . . .' So I said — not seriously, of course — that I'd like his room. It had a big bay window with stained glass on the sides, and it was so pretty. And he starts picking up stuff and moving it!" I giggled at the memory. "I was horrified that he'd taken me literally."

When I first saw Edward's bedroom, I was amazed that people could really have window seats. I'd read about girls who had them, but it seemed like something old-fashioned, something you didn't find outside a palace or a really, really old mansion. And he had the best view — that house was up the hill from the Chicago River, and beyond that you could see the city all lit up at night like on the postcards. I just wanted to look out that window for hours.

When he'd asked if I wanted anything and I'd jokingly replied, "Your room," Edward had just given me that crooked grin of his and picked up a stack of books on his desk.

"Get that for me, would you?" he ordered, jerking his chin at his stereo. And I just stood there, horrified that he would take me seriously. You don't demand things when you're living at someone else's house, not if you want to stay there. Besides, regardless of the consequences, I just couldn't stand the thought of them thinking I was really that greedy.

"I tried to stop him," I told Bella, shaking my head ruefully. "I kept telling him it was a joke, but he said he didn't care where he slept, and he only stopped when I cried. But he's really so sweet like that. I mean, if you touch his music collection, he'll throw a hissy fit 'til you'd think he was on his man-period, but really, he'd give you the shirt off his back."

Daddy knocked just then; he always came around to say good night to all of us right before bedtime. "Come in!" I called, noticing that Bella pulled her blanket a little further up under her chin, as if to protect herself. From _Daddy,_ of all people, I thought disgustedly. As nervous as I'd been about him and Mom when they first brought me here, it only took being with Dad a short while to know that he would never hurt me, not physically. And, as I came to find out, I would never be hurt emotionally, either. It constantly amazed me that Maggie, Siobhan, Jasper, Rosalie, and now Bella could be so afraid of the kindest, gentlest man to ever walk the Earth.

He came in and closed the door behind him . . . then, without pausing for a second, he crossed to my bed — tossing a foam pillow that must be for Bella's leg on the floor first — and leaped onto it, walking on his knees until he could catch me and pin me down, tickling until I broke into helpless giggles. We had a routine, Daddy and I, but I could only imagine what Bella thought of us. "Daddy!" I gasped out. "You're scaring Bella!"

"Bella's next," he growled, pretending to sink his teeth into my throat, snarling and snorting like a crazed dog. I wheezed with laughter as I pictured Bella's reaction.

Daddy finally got up and headed for her bed, and this time I couldn't blame her for looking terrified. But Daddy only gently peeled back the sheets and then retrieved the foam pillow, settling her leg into the contours. "Anything you need to ask me, sweetheart?" I heard him say quietly.

Bella shook her head. "No, thank you, Doc — Carlisle. I'm fine."

_Of course you're fine. If you fell down the stairs and broke your leg again, you'd be fine, too._ I knew how she felt — most foster kids never ask for a thing, not wanting to come across as high-maintenance even if they aren't actually scared. I felt the same way, and Jasper and Rose, of course. Even when Emmett first came, almost a year after I did, he'd been reluctant to draw even the slightest bit of attention to himself . . . though you'd never guess by the way he acts now. Obviously, Bella was going to need my help coming out of her shell.

When I'd put Bella's clothes away for her, I'd had to hide my disgust. She hardly had anything at all, and the things she did have were old and ugly. Mostly t-shirts, plus a couple of sweatshirts and two pairs of ratty jeans, all looking like they'd been handed down since the eighties. Her underwear was all worn out, and the two bras I put away were all yellow. It took a long, long time for sweat to stain bras that badly. It had taken me a moment, after closing her empty suitcase and tucking it away in the closet, to figure out that something was missing.

"Where's your coat?" I'd asked. She hadn't been wearing one when she got here, I knew — I'd been standing right on the stairs, after all. Just her sweatshirt, the neck of which was so stretched out that I could see she didn't have a t-shirt on underneath. She must have been freezing.

Bella's face flushed pink again — she sure was a blusher — and her voice was really low as she said, "I don't have one."

"No coat?" Honestly, I knew foster parents could be cheap, but why hadn't her school noticed she didn't have a coat? They're supposed to report that kind of thing.

"I, uh . . . I had loaned it to James, my b — my friend, and never got it back," she explained reluctantly. "It was a man's parka, so it fit him, and he didn't have a coat, so . . ." She shrugged.

"He's the one who hurt you?"

Bella stared at me in shock, and then she actually looked kind of angry. Or maybe it was betrayal she was feeling. I hastened to defend my parents. "Mom and Daddy would never tell us things like that, Bella. They didn't know I was listening. I like to sit under the dining room table and do my homework, and they didn't see me." I patted her leg. "They let us kids work out who gets to know what. Jasper tells me things, but not much, and I still don't know exactly what happened with his family." I looked at her apprehensively. "Don't be mad."

"I'm not," she murmured. "It was my own fault, I guess. What happened."

"Oh . . . hush," I said irritably. Leave it to Bella to blame herself for getting beaten and thrown down the stairs.

Anyway, we definitely had to get Bella a whole new wardrobe. Mom would take her shopping, of course, but she might not think of it right away. Or if she did, she might wait a while first, because I guess it'd be hard to try on clothes with a cast. Meanwhile, I couldn't stand the thought of Bella dressing in those rags, and I was too little to loan her much of anything.

I knew most foster kids would die before they asked for anything directly. I'd eventually gotten Edward's room back in Chicago — not that we were there much longer, in any case — but even then, I still felt like Mom and Daddy must be shaking their heads over my taking something from their son, even though it was his idea. Bella didn't seem the type to ask for a thing, even as a joke. If Mom offered to take Bella shopping, she'd just tell her she didn't need anything. They'd get it done at some point, but Bella would always feel guilty, maybe even scared, at the thought of being an expense to them so early on. I had to do something to take the pressure off her.

"Daddy, Bella's clothes are hideous," I announced petulantly. "Mom needs to get her some new things."

"_Alice!"_ Oh, he was mad for sure, I thought gleefully, noting the way his teeth stayed slightly bared after he finished hissing my name, not to mention the furious scowl that he rarely ever used with us kids making his face suddenly into a stranger's. Bella looked like she wanted to sink right through the bed and the floor beneath it, her face a shade of puce I hadn't seen since one of Mom's clients wanted his whole house done in a retro-seventies style. "That is _not_ a nice thing to say, young lady," my father scolded.

I pouted, doing my best to look rebellious. "Well, it's _true,_" I muttered. "She'll get laughed at. People will think our family's gone weird all of a sudden." Now _that_ was rich. A barely thirty couple with six adopted teenagers who lived out in the woods and drank raw milk, and Bella's _clothes_ were going to start tongues wagging. Yup, Hollywood definitely needs someone like me to liven things up.

"Alice, take a powder," he ordered me, thoroughly exasperated. Giving them both a winning smile, I skipped out of the room and right into the bathroom next door — where, provided I didn't turn on the overhead fan, I could press my ear against the back wall of the linen closet and hear every word they said anyway.

I tried not to make any noise opening the accordion door or slipping behind the hot water heater, where there was a space just my size. This used to be the boys' room when we first moved here, while Mom was working on redecorating Emmett's. I was still pretty paranoid back then, thinking that every little thing I did wrong was going to get me sent back to the institution. When one or both of them got spoken to about something they'd done — or left _un_done — I would creep in here and eavesdrop. It made me feel better when I knew how things stood, especially if I'd been in on whatever the boys had been up to.

When I pressed my ear up to the wall, Daddy's voice came through clearly enough, if a bit muted. His voice always made me feel safe. ". . . means any of it. Alice doesn't have a mean bone in her body — she just tends to blurt things out thoughtlessly," Dad was explaining to Bella. "Esme will be taking you shopping, of course, but it certainly isn't because you _embarrass_ us," he assured her with a laugh.

"Oh, I didn't — I don't — I'm fine, really," Bella protested. I could only imagine how red her face must be. "I don't need anything."

"Now, Bella, don't be unreasonable. You do need new clothes, after all, particularly skirts. You can't wear jeans over this cast, that's for certain." A weak little murmur of Bella's was cut off before I could hear what she had to say.

"Are you sure there isn't anything you'd like to ask me? It's been a long day, and everything must seem pretty overwhelming," he commiserated.

I couldn't hear what Bella said next; it sounded like, "Take me to school."

"Not tonight, hon. Maybe tomorrow morning, but not all at once or it'll get overwhelming. Don't worry; it'll be a long time before we expect you to know everything."

Oh, probably she'd been asking what the rules were. Daddy should know by now that it's better to lay it all down immediately . . . but then again, no one can remember everything they hear all at once, like he'd said. I missed Bella's response while I was thinking that — if indeed she had one. "Well, it's time for bed, anyway," I heard Daddy say. "Here, let's help you get settled." I decided my 'powder' was over.

By the time I got out to the hallway, Dad was just coming out the door, probably to come find me. He'd never let me go to sleep without my hug and kiss, even if he were still a little ticked off at me.

I gave him a huge, toothy smile, and I guess he did know the score, after all, because he couldn't keep a straight face after that. "You little demon," he said admiringly, picking me up and squeezing me tight. "What would we do without you?" My father isn't stupid, that's for sure.

"Starve," I replied in my most serious voice. Dad's chuckle rumbled against my neck as he carried me back into my room — _our_ room, mine and Bella's, I remembered once again. The thought made me even happier this time. Daddy brought me over to the sofa bed and dumped me unceremoniously onto the tangled sheets. Bella's bedside light was already off, and Daddy snapped the switch on mine as I scrambled to get under the covers. He leaned down and gave me my kiss. "Daddy, did you kiss Bella?" I demanded.

Dad snorted. "Yes, I kissed Bella," he said patiently. "Now go to sleep, both of you. Good _night._"

"'Night, Daddy." I snuggled contentedly into my bed as he left, shutting the door and leaving us in total darkness. It was true, what I had told Bella — I liked sleeping on the sofa sometimes. It was neat, seeing the room from a different angle. I heard Bella shift in her bed across the room. "'Night, Bella," I said in a stage whisper.

"Good night," I heard . . . barely. I hoped she wasn't put out at me still. Well, she'd get over it. And maybe Mom would let me come shopping with them so I could pick out Bella's clothes. I sighed happily. Just when I thought life with Mom and Dad and my siblings couldn't be any more perfect, I got a new sister. I sure hadn't expected this when I was being tossed around to different houses and hospitals and fed all those pills. Just goes to show that things can always get better, no matter how horrible it may be for a while — as long as you never let go of hope.


	9. College Bound

**Edward**

I should say something to her. Something that might make her relax a little. I remember how scared I was at the group home I went to right after my parents died, and my first foster home. None of them had spoken to me beyond necessary words, and I felt so alone. Alice, of course, had taken over Bella the first night . . . but she'd be living here from now on, and she seemed painfully shy, the kind that always stays pasted to the wall unless someone makes an effort to draw them out. I could do that much, couldn't I?

The next time Bella glanced at me, I smiled at her. Not a huge grin, not baring my teeth or anything, but just a nice, friendly smile. It worked; she blushed, of course — jeez, this girl was a blusher — but gave me a tentative smile in return. Then, of course, I didn't know where else we could go with it, so like an idiot, I went back to my huge plate of food — weekend dinners at our house are legendary — like nothing had happened, listening to the conversation swirling around me and occasionally contributing to it. But every so often I glanced back over at Bella, and sometimes she happened to dart her eyes in my direction at the same time, and then we'd both look away. It was almost funny.

After dinner, it was Jasper's turn to clean up — again — but Alice stayed in the kitchen to help him, because those two can't seem to do anything separately. I'm surprised Alice lets Jasper use the bathroom by himself. Rosalie would have liked, I'm sure, to go hide in her room and brood, but Mom and Dad want us to stay in the living room after dinner so we can be together. Even if we're all working on homework or watching TV, they like that we can see each other and that we're not drifting apart into our own little worlds. I roll my eyes as much as the next person at their rules, but deep down I know what they're doing and respect them for it. We're an incredibly close family, closer than any of my friends' families, so obviously they're not too far off.

Bella seemed kind of lost, so I smiled at her again and patted the sofa next to me. Looking relieved, she crutched herself over and settled down right in the corner, where she probably felt safer for having the armrest next to her. It was something to snuggle against while making sure no one would sit down there. She reached over the side and propped her crutches against the wall, then sat fidgeting as though she didn't know what to do with her hands.

Mom had gone shopping yesterday and brought Bella home a bunch of t-shirts and some sweatpants and yoga pants, all stretchy fabrics that could fit over her cast. I'd seen a couple shoeboxes, and there had been a new coat hanging in the closet downstairs. She'd also gotten socks, apparently, since Bella's cast foot was bundled in two crisp new cotton socks. I found myself wondering if Mom had also bought Bella underwear, then felt like a pervert for even thinking about it.

Whenever new kids come here, like the O'Malley girls or Rose and Jasper, I'm usually pretty relaxed around them. Alice does all the coordinating, after all, ferreting out the newcomers' likes and dislikes and getting them involved in our family activities, so I can just kind of sit back and watch, or maybe step in and be someone's Pictionary partner once in a while. Bella was different; I felt tongue-tied and awkward, like I might have felt if she were the new girl at school and I was trying to get up the nerve to ask her out. Which was odd because, up 'til now, I'd never wanted to ask anyone out.

She wasn't any glamour girl like Rosalie, or even cute in a pixie way like Alice. I could actually see where some boys might consider her plain. But even with the sutures in her forehead, the limp hair and dark circles under her eyes, and those horrible bruises on her face, there was something about Bella Swan that made me feel a very strange ache inside. It was as though all those times I'd told myself I didn't want a girlfriend because I needed my time free for music were just so many lame excuses. And so instead of being able to converse easily, I was left struggling for even the most basic pleasantries.

I was trying to figure out what to say to her when Dad came back from the bathroom. He smiled at the newest addition to our Norman Rockwell painting of a family and sat down between us, putting his arm around Bella. "Did you get enough to eat, sweetheart?" he asked her quietly. Bella nodded. "Good." He settled back against the sofa and watched Rosalie frowning over her Algebra book. "You need help, Rose?"

"I'm fine."

"Well, if you run into trouble . . . I _think_ I passed Algebra," he replied lightly.

"Thanks." Rose's tone was clipped. She usually got by on as few words as possible. It would go so much easier for her if she'd give Dad a chance; he always knows how to explain things the way the teachers don't, and he can come up with word problems people actually give a shit about, not rowboats and currents and dance competitions with _x_ number of bouquets per winner. I told her that once, but she said to mind my own business. I pretty much gave up trying with her a long time ago.

I retrieved my backpack from its place next to the couch and pulled out my binder and a pen, wanting to tackle my English essay first before starting on History. Mr. Williams was new this semester. Mrs. White — who was, incidentally, the type of teacher that answered the question "Can I go to the lav?" with "I don't know; can you?" — had taken a leave of absence as of Christmas break. There was a minority of smart-alecks that claimed she was having a baby, but considering the woman was fifty-five if she was a day, that probably wasn't a valid theory.

In an effort to kill two birds with one stone, the new teacher was having us write a series of essays on various personal topics, such as "My Favorite Book" (_The Mysterious Island_) and "The Person I Admire Most" (my dad). They weren't expected to be long or involved; the point was to let him get to know us while enhancing our word usage and grammar skills.

This week's essay, "The Kindest Thing Anyone Has Ever Done for Me," didn't require a whole lot of thought.

_When my parents died, all their things had to be sold to pay off the hospital bills, including the piano my mother taught me to play on. It had been in our family for almost a hundred years, and I missed it so much. I hated the thought of some antique collector buying it and just letting it sit in their living room without ever being played._

There's a plain upright here in the living room so I can play for the family sometimes. But whenever I go into my music room and see the old piano, I picture my mother, her copper hair flowing around her favorite green housedress, her lovely voice keeping perfect time with the piece she'd chosen to play. That instrument has always symbolized the countless hours she spent teaching me scales and arpeggios, and at ten years old, I didn't understand that memories are not dependent on objects. To my mind, I had lost the very essence of my mother's love for me.

_When I was adopted, my mom found out from the caseworker about the piano and how sad I was over losing it. To this day, I can't imagine how she got the information, but she and my dad managed to find the antique shop that had it, and they paid a lot of money to get it back for me. I came home from school one day, and it was sitting in our living room._

I paused in my writing. Should I mention how I had sat down on the floor and burst into tears? How I'd refused to touch the piano for months, or even go into the living room at all? They told my therapist, and she tried to ask me about it, but I wouldn't respond. I would just clam up and stare out the window until she changed the subject. Mom and Dad were so worried about me that they were ready to call the piano movers and put the damn thing in storage until they figured out what to do.

But Mom has this uncanny ability to sense what's bothering us kids. At first, she was so frazzled that she couldn't even think straight. When I got a little older, she confided in me that she was sure she'd brought home the wrong piano somehow. But eventually, Mom figured it out. She probably knew better than I did, actually, as I don't remember specifically why it bothered me so much. It's like my mind just went fuzzy whenever I thought about the bulky instrument in the living room.

Then one day — just another normal day — I was sitting in my bedroom, doing my homework, when everything changed. The piano had sat in the living room for almost three months at that point. Mom and Dad had tried a few times to get me to go in there, but their attempts had dwindled down to nothing. Even my therapist didn't mention it anymore. So when I heard the first few bars of "Für Elise," played haltingly but without any wrong notes, I really thought my mind had finally cracked. Maybe someone else would have assumed they were hearing a CD, but I had played that piano or heard my mother play it so many times that I would have recognized it halfway around the world.

I crept downstairs and hesitated outside the doorway to the living room, my heart pounding away, only able to breathe in short little gasps. When I finally got up the nerve to peek around the corner, I was sure I'd see my mother in her green dress with her hair on fire from the sun coming in the window, and I didn't know whether I would run over and hug her . . . or run away screaming.

But it wasn't my mother, or at least not the one I'd been expecting. Mom's hair isn't a completely different color from mine and my biological mother's, but it was different enough that I wasn't confused about who was sitting there. And unlike my vision moments before, the sun wasn't streaming in the window to light up her caramel tresses and pale skin. I hadn't noticed when the sky darkened outside my bedroom or the steady patter of rain began against the roof, but now I could see that the trees outside were being tossed angrily in the throes of a capricious wind, and hear the raindrops blending together into a dull, constant roar.

As I took one hesitant step after the other, closer and closer to Mom, I could tell that she was struggling to get the notes right, whereas Elizabeth Masen had taught piano for seven years at the Chicago Musical College. I wanted to help her, to lay my little stubby child fingers on top of hers the way my mother had and guide her through the notes. She smiled at me as I came the rest of the way over and carefully slid in next to her on the bench.

Mom told me later that she'd hired someone to give her lessons while I was at school until she could play a few songs. Dad knew how to play a little, but it was so rare for him to be home when I wasn't, and Mom had wanted to learn as quickly as possible. It was a long shot, but she hoped that it would bring me out of my stupor enough that we could have a real conversation about the piano.

"It's no disrespect to us that you miss them, Edward," she told me softly, placing my fingers on the smooth ivory keys as the tears dripped down my face like the rain that ran in rivulets against the glass of the front window. I pressed down, but even though I could probably have played with my eyes closed, I was crying so hard by then that I couldn't even sit up straight anymore. Mom had to pull me to her and hold me with one arm, playing just the chords with the other, as I gave up and let the music swirl around me. And sitting there in my mom's arms, listening to this piece of my old life that I thought was gone forever . . . that was the hour when I let my parents — my first parents — go. I've never forgotten them, of course, or compared them to Carlisle and Esme as though this were some kind of contest. And there are times, even now, that I grieve for them, wondering what they could have accomplished were they allowed to live their lives to a normal length. But that was the day I stopped feeling guilty for loving the parents that had given me a second chance.

But as important as those memories were, I couldn't write about any of them in my essay. They were too precious and too private to share with Mr. Williams. I would get an A simply because everything was spelled correctly and it didn't give him a headache to read. Laying out my history of timorous emotions for my English teacher was not high on my list of priorities.

_My mom does so many kind things for me and my siblings that I could never list them all._ And while my first thought was that the kindest thing was really her and Dad adopting me in the first place, that couldn't go in the essay, either. _But while she could have been jealous of the fact that I still loved my parents, she got my piano back for me even though it was bound to make me remember, and she's always encouraged me to think of them often even as I live my new life with her and Dad._

I sighed and tucked the essay into the slot at the back of my binder. It didn't say exactly what I wanted it to, and gave away a little more than I was comfortable with, but I had other assignments that couldn't wait while I tweaked the hell out of it. If I could manage to wrestle some time at the computer tonight, I'd type it up. If not, I would copy it over in better handwriting in homeroom tomorrow.

Even before Jasper and Rosalie came, and even with Mom having her own laptop for work, it was hard for Alice and Emmett and me to all get our schoolwork done with one computer. It got even harder during those times when other kids were staying here, however temporarily. So finally, when our newest brother and sister arrived, Dad caved and bought matching Compaqs, one for the boys and one for the girls. He took the old one into his study, and probably doesn't know what to do with himself now that he can go online whenever he likes. I wonder if he ever looks at porn . . .

Anyway, the essay was pretty short and shouldn't take more than ten minutes to type and set up properly. My piano training makes me automatically a fast typist, and if I don't end up as a professional musician, I can at least earn my keep as a court reporter.

"Edward?"

I looked up from my backpack at Dad, who hadn't moved this whole time. "Yeah, Dad?"

"I'm a little too comfortable here," he told me, nuzzling Bella's head with his chin, "so would you mind getting that Amazon box off the hall table?"

I nodded. "Sure, okay." I'd seen the box when I got home from school on Friday, but hadn't thought of it since. I wondered what Dad had ordered. Probably some new book he wanted to read instead of watching the TV. You'd think that after a shift at the hospital, Dad would just want to relax in front of the tube, but he says everything on TV is shit these days. I don't think that's true in general, but there are certain times of day that are like some kind of purgatory. Too late for _Unsolved Mysteries_ and too early for _Forensic Files._ And Sundays, as a rule, were a total loss.

I went to hand Dad the box that I'd fetched from the hallway, but then I realized he'd have trouble opening it with his arm around Bella, so I crammed my fingers under the flap and pulled the tape away for him.

"Thank you, son," he said, grateful to me for helping him out. I sat back down next to him and flipped through my history book until I got to the chapter we were supposed to be working on. Martin Luther King, Jr. stared back at me from the first page. At first, it looked like the men on either side of him were dragging him forcibly along, until I realized that they were actually linking arms in a protest march. King's face was so solemn that it was easy to believe he was being arrested or something.

"Here you go, sweetie," I heard my dad murmur. I looked up and saw that he was handing Bella a Gameboy; so that was what he'd ordered. I smiled. That would be perfect for her, cooped up inside all day.

"For me?" Bella whispered. She looked flabbergasted, and a blush was already starting to color her face. It was interesting to watch how she turned red. It began with her ears — or, well, I could only see one ear, but I assumed it was the same on the other side — and then crept across the apples of her cheeks, then kind of leaked upwards and downwards at the same time until her forehead and chin matched.

"I don't usually like to see you kids sitting around playing video games," Dad told her, giving me a pointed look, "especially if it's nice enough to go outside. But you'll be cooped up for a couple weeks, at least, and I guess reading all day would strain your eyes just as much."

"Video games work the mind just as much as books," I said defensively. "Or, anyway, some of them do."

"I got you this game," Dad continued, taking out a small square game box and tossing the empty shipping carton towards the door. "_Sword of Mana_. It was specially recommended for me."

"They saw him coming," I murmured to no one in particular. King didn't appear to sympathize; he looked like he had a lot on his mind. Of course, according to the caption, he died a week after the photo was taken, so . . . yeah, no wonder he looked all crabby. I slammed the book shut, not in the mood for history right now. "Don't worry, Bella," I reassured her. "Tomorrow before school, I'll loan you _Oracle of Ages_. You won't have to be all bored."

"All right," Dad huffed. "I know I'm old and feeble, but I try."

"No, it looks like fun," Bella protested, her face now about the color of beet juice. "Really. It was so nice of — thank you so much, Carlisle."

"Of course, sweetheart," he said happily. Nothing tickles Dad more than giving his kids something we really like. "Go ahead and try it out."

I eased myself into a reclining position, my legs hanging up and over the armrest so my feet dangled above the floor. I closed my eyes and listened to Bella as she took out her Gameboy and started it up — Dad had to get up, after all, to plug in the adapter. I would have done it if he'd said something other than "Here, I'll get that," which didn't register in my brain until he was already up. But it only took a second before he was back, and for about ten minutes I just listened contentedly to the soft pings and beeps from Bella's new toy.

"Dad?" I asked him after a while, staring across at Mom's favorite painting on the far wall.

Dad's hand fell lightly on my head, and I closed my eyes at the overwhelming tenderness of his gesture. He and Mom always say how _they're_ the lucky ones, lucky to be our parents, as if we kids were indulging them out of sheer charity. We've all seen too much to ever believe that, and none of us — not even Jasper and Rosalie, I think, for all their coldness — ever forget how easily our lives could all have gone to Hell in a handcart had Mom and Dad not found us.

"I got the forms in the mail yesterday," I said slowly. "For Juilliard. And I'm going to apply for an audition."

Dad gasped, and his hand stopped stroking my hair. "Edward," he breathed. "Oh, son, I'm so happy for you."

I tilted my head back a bit, but it was hard to read Dad's expression upside-down, so I sat up with a grunt and turned around until I faced him. It was worth the effort — Dad's face was absolutely glowing, and he flashed a huge grin before clapping me on the shoulder and pulling me against him. Thing about my dad is, though, that as excited as he was for me, he kept his other arm protectively around Bella the whole time. If Dad has favorites, it's something he keeps so well hidden that even I've never been able to figure it out. He never just drops one of us for another. Not even for this news, which I knew he'd been waiting to hear for ages.

"It's a lot of money," I murmured against his chest. "But I'm going to try and get a scholarship. I don't know how likely that is, 'cause it's bound to be really competitive. But I'll try my best."

"That's all we ever ask of any of you," Dad answered. My ear was pressed against his upper arm, and his voice rumbled pleasantly against it. "Don't worry about the money, son. You'll get in, and when you do, consider it paid for." And as much as I cringed at the thought of him spending all that money when there were the others to think of, his saying that made me feel so safe and loved that I just gave in and selfishly basked in the warm emotions. "I must be horribly selfish," Dad added after a minute. "When I think of you going off like that, so far away . . . I don't know what I'm going to do without you here."

"Well, you're not rid of me yet," I huffed, pretending to be annoyed. "I still have to audition."

"You'll get in," Dad repeated with certainty. "No question about it." I dropped my gaze and stared at my hands for a moment. Not for the first time — and certainly not for the last — I felt a wave of sickening fear wash over me at the idea of failing, of not getting a place at Juilliard. Of letting Dad down. That was the reason I'd put off applying for so long, though I'd dreamt of going to Juilliard since I was a little boy. He noticed my sudden quiet, however, and immediately guessed the reason for it.

"Son," I heard, and then a gentle but firm pressure forced my chin upward until I met his gaze. "I'm so very proud of you. And I love you so very much. No matter where you go to school, or what you end up doing with your life, that will never change." I felt my face heating up like Bella's had so many times already, and I averted my eyes. I've never been good with moments. "Have you told your mother?" I shook my head. "Esme!" he called, sounding like some excited old geezer yelling, _"Bingo!"_

Mom came in from the dining room, one of her colored pencils over her ear and another twirling in her fingers. "What, hon?" she asked him, smiling at Bella and me in turn.

"Your son," Dad informed her, gripping my arm, "is going to apply to Juilliard."

Just like Dad, Mom's first reaction was a huge gasp. "Eddie Bear!" she exclaimed.

_"Mom!"_ I whined, horrified . . . but it was too late. Emmett guffawed loudly from his armchair, and Alice broke into helpless giggles out in the kitchen. I couldn't hear Jasper, but even Rosalie was hiding a smile. I wasn't even going to _look_ at Bella. I _hated_ that name.

But Mom was unapologetic as she pulled me out of Dad's grasp and into her arms. "I've been hoping you'd decide to go ever since you were just our little Eddie Bear," she insisted, her arms cutting into me like the tentacles of a particularly determined octopus. "I'll call you whatever I like tonight."

"I _hate_ that name, though," I protested when she finally let me go, squirming when I thought of what Bella must think.

"All right," Alice said, turning the kitchen light off as she and Jasper came out to join us. "Enough . . . _mush_ for tonight. Bella, you want to play Monopoly with us?"

"We'll all play," Dad said, finally taking his arm from around Bella — who was just closing her little clamshell game — and heading for the stairs. "I'll bring the game up here." I could be wrong, but I think Dad just wanted to be alone for a few minutes to do his 'happy dance' over the Juilliard news. I half expected to hear him whooping "Yahoo!" from downstairs.

"I want the hat," Alice announced as she skipped over to the three loveseats arranged in a 'U' around the fireplace and removed Mom's pewter bowl of Christmas balls from the coffee table.

"You're always the hat," I grumbled, heaving myself off the couch and instinctively offering a hand to Bella. She smiled tentatively at me as everyone else claimed a seat and Alice went back to the kitchen for Bella's stool.

"That's really cool that you're going to Juilliard," she offered softly. "Your dad said at the hospital that he hoped you would, so everyone would be able to hear you play."

It was the first time she'd spoken to me directly, and her words made me feel all warm again. Partly because of knowing that Dad had talked to her about me, but also because I could sense definite admiration in her tone. "I can show you how to play if you'd like," I said, not knowing where the words came from. I had never offered to teach any of my siblings. Maybe I felt none of them would be interested . . . but I can also be kind of selfish with my time, and piano has always been a private thing with me. I don't mind playing songs I've pretty much mastered for the family once in a while, but mostly I like to be alone.

"Well . . ." How could someone so pale have all that blood in her to blush so much? "I wouldn't be any good," she said sadly as I helped her to her feet. "I can't do much of anything. It would be like teaching a five-year-old."

I smiled. "I was three when my mother started teaching me. We could try." _And even if you're really lousy, I think we could find things to talk about anyway._ "Tomorrow."

Bella smiled back, though hers was still a little sad. "Okay, then," she sighed, taking the crutches I handed her and letting Alice skitter by us with the footstool in hand. "Tomorrow . . . Eddie Bear."


	10. Reunion

**Esme**

Growing up, I used to think there was something seriously wrong with me.

You read things, you know? Perfect example: just about every girl I went to school with was reading the _Sweet Valley_ series. It started back when I was only eleven, so I was a little young to be interested, but SVH was still going strong when I got to high school. There could still be new ones, for all I know, but it kind of dried up for me after I graduated.

Anyway, you had the twins, these perfectly distinctive personality types. Elizabeth never changed, it seemed — always very studious and serious. That one time she tried surfing was a fluke, just her trying to be all rebellious. Not that being the quiet type saved her from about forty-three near-death experiences in her junior year alone, of course. Then you had Jessica, the cheerleader and party girl, irresponsible and yet irrepressible. And when you're reading about different characters, it's natural that you start to compare yourself to them and pick one you're the most similar to. People need to feel like they fit in, I guess.

I never seemed to fit in anywhere.

I was a good enough student, but it wasn't due to grinding away like Elizabeth. Once in a while, I'd go through a (short) phase where I'd try to start a project way ahead of time. I'd get one paragraph done and leave the rest for the night before the due date like normal.

I wasn't a cheerleader like Jessica, and I wasn't the life of the party all the time . . . but I was always on decorating committees or busy planning events. I never wanted to play school sports, but I'd go home and play outside like a little kid, even in high school. I was sixteen the day I fell out of the tree. Even I wondered what made me suddenly decide that I just _had_ to play Bilbo Baggins and 'climb to the top of the tallest tree and have a look-about.' But then, they say instinct is God whispering instructions. If I hadn't broken my leg, I never would have gone to the hospital . . . and met a weekend volunteer named Carlisle Cullen.

I took ballet . . . until I got bored. I also rode horses . . . and got bored with that. I started the flute, and occasionally I'd get really into playing . . . until all the blowing gave me a headache. Sometimes I get really into it when our family goes camping or fishing. Other times, I'm afraid I'll smear my makeup. Some days I can't wear makeup at all; it feels like a very heavy, slippery mask whose eyeholes I can't see out of and through whose rough-cut mouth I find it difficult to breathe.

There are nights (particularly if I'm starving) that I wish I hadn't made that vow never to serve takeout (except Chinese, on certain occasions) or 'prepared' food at home. Sometimes you're just not in the mood to chop vegetables and obsessively stir the gravy so it doesn't form a solid lump _again._ But then, I can also get so into cooking that I feel like quitting my job and staying home all the time to try out different meals and desserts. Considering how much our kids eat, I don't think I'd have much extra time, though.

Today was one of those good days. As soon as Carlisle and I had decided that we would be taking Bella, I'd put the firm on notice not to give me any new projects for a while. Once Bella's leg is better, of course, I'll go back to a normal schedule. But right now, it's best for me to be home to take care of her, and also to give her emotional support. Just being away from her boyfriend isn't enough; Bella needs something to take his place in her life. When Charles and I broke up, I felt like I was adrift in a rowboat with no oars, moving so fast that before I knew it, the shore was out of sight. I could easily have decided that being alone was too frightening and gone crawling back. My parents were, predictably, no help, but I was determined that my children would always be able to lean on me when they were scared or in trouble.

Anyway, as I've said, this was definitely a good day for cooking. I had decided on steak, oven-baked sweet potato fries, and steamed broccoli for dinner, with apple pie for dessert. The thing about having such a large family, particularly one with Emmett in it, is that everything has to be bought and prepared in wholesale quantities. There were seven steaks in the freezer — we girls probably wouldn't eat more than half of one apiece, but the boys might split the extra — and four bunches of broccoli in the fridge. We carry home ten-pound bags of potatoes the way normal people pick up cartons of milk. And as to the milk . . . believe it or not, we actually own two cows that we pay David Connweller to keep (and milk) for us. I've heard other mothers joke that their sons need a cow all to themselves . . . and we have two.

The phone rang just as I was unrolling the store-bought piecrusts — right, like I have all the time in the world to roll piecrust from scratch — into the baking dishes. I was waiting for a call about those tea tables for the Windham project, so I scurried over right away. My hands were all covered in flour as I picked up the cordless. "Hello, this is Esme," I said, wishing I'd thought to grab a towel to wipe my hands with in case I had to write something down.

"Um, hi, Mrs. Cullen, this is Jacob Black. Is Bella home?"

I didn't know the caller, but he sounded like a nice young man. Not like the calls that come in for Emmett (_Yo, Emmett around?_); this boy had introduced himself and politely asked for Bella. For _Bella._ I suddenly felt really excited. "Yes! Yes, she is. Just hold on one second." I pressed the Mute button and laid the phone down, then walked over to the doorway between kitchen and living room, where Bella was watching TV. The couch faced this wall, so even though she wasn't directly in front of me, I could see the blue light flickering off her pale skin in the dim room.

"Bella, honey? There's a Jacob Black on the phone for you." Bella's face suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree, and for the first time since I'd known her, she smiled. A huge, genuine smile. "Can I talk to him?" she asked me shyly.

I shook my head regretfully. "No, hon, I just wanted you to know he was on the phone before I hung up." Bella's face fell. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Bella, of course you can talk to him," I laughed. "I was only playing with you." She smiled again — a much weaker smile, though — and reached for her crutches. "Why don't you go use the phone in Carlisle's study?" I suggested, going over to give her a hand. "That'll give you a little privacy. I'll tell Jacob to hold on a moment."

"Okay. Thanks," Bella murmured as I helped her to her feet. As she crutched herself down the hallway, I headed back for the kitchen, but stayed in the doorway so I could watch her progress.

"Don't rush, now. Plenty of time," I warned Bella, my hand hovering back over Mute, before I pressed it and put the phone to my ear again. "Jacob? She's just picking up in the other room."

"Oh, all right. Thanks," he replied.

"Do you know Bella from school, then? In Seattle?" I asked, trying to make conversation. I was happy to be speaking with one of her friends, and hoped I could encourage him to call more often.

"No, ma'am, I'm here in Forks. I go to school on the Rez. Well, not today, 'cause my dad's sick. He and Bella's dad were best friends."

"Of course." It all clicked into place then. "Black, right. Your father must be Billy Black."

"Yes, ma'am." Jacob sounded a bit embarrassed, understandably; Carlisle and Billy had had quite the disagreement when we first moved here. Out camping with Emmett and Edward, and unfamiliar with the local boundary lines, Carlisle had inadvertently set up camp in the woods behind Billy's house. I wouldn't have thought it was a big deal — anyone can make a mistake, particularly someone new to the area — but that was during hunting season, and evidently my husband had been the last in a long line of trespassers on Quileute land. It certainly didn't come to blows or anything, but . . . well, Jacob was bound to feel a bit awkward.

I didn't care, though. I wouldn't care if Billy had called the police and gotten Carlisle arrested, even. All that mattered was that Bella had a friend. Nothing was going to jeopardize that. "Well, I'm so glad you called," I said warmly. "Bella's been a bit lonely, having to stay home all day, and — " I heard the click as Bella picked up the other phone.

"Jacob?" she asked, sounding excited.

"Well, nice to talk to you, Jacob. Call here anytime," I told him.

"Thanks, Mrs. Cullen."

I pressed Talk again to hang up, then carried the phone over to the stove so I could rub the floury handprints off it with a dishtowel. I was smiling when I returned to my apples, which had already turned slightly brown in the three minutes or so I'd left them alone. I busied myself with measuring out cornstarch, sugar, and cinnamon and letting my mouth water at the delicious smells.

It was while I was putting my pies in the oven that I heard Carlisle's study door open and Bella's crutches gently thumping down the hallway. I wiped my hands on the towel one last time and went in just as she was settling back into her seat. She returned my smile as I perched on the sofa arm next to her. "How long since you last talked to Jacob, Bella?" I asked.

Her face turned a little sad. "A long time. We used to call back and forth right after my dad died, when I was staying at the group home, but then I was placed with a family and couldn't use the office phone anymore. I never felt right asking them."

Our family isn't filthy rich or anything, but sometimes I'm a little surprised to learn that people worry about ten cents a minute for long distance. "Sweetheart, we have the Freedom Package, you know, from the phone company. It's a flat rate, and doesn't cost any extra for long distance. You can call your friends anytime you like."

Bella gave me an ironic smile. "Now that I'm back in Forks, I can call long distance?"

I had to laugh. "I meant your friends in Seattle, of course. You can call anyone you want. And, you know, the Reservation isn't far from here," I said, playing with a strand of her hair. "Why don't I call Billy Black and find out when you can go visit? I'll drive you over."

Bella shook her head automatically, but I didn't miss the flash of hope in her eyes. "Oh, no, Mrs. — uh, Esme. It's a longer drive than you think."

"Nonsense. I drive to Seattle and Port Angeles for clients all the time. La Push is nothing." I stood up. "In fact, I'll call right now. We'll set something up."

I heard Bella whisper "Thank you" as I returned to the kitchen to check the Caller ID. But I paused with my hand on the doorframe, staring at the phone and thinking about something I hadn't yet approached Bella with.

I turned around. "Honey?" Bella looked up again, surprised that I was still standing there. "You know, about the phone . . ." I went over and, once again, perched next to her on the couch. "Before Jacob called, I was thinking of asking you . . . would you like to call your mother?"

I expected surprise from Bella — most kids we'd fostered were flabbergasted that they were 'allowed' to keep in touch with their families, friends, or even former foster parents. I just can't understand the mentality of cutting these children off from the few people in their lives that might constitute lasting relationships. When they turn eighteen and end up all alone, it's too late to call.

It was surprise I expected, so I was a bit unprepared for horror. Or whatever emotion it was that made Bella's eyes fill with tears and her mouth work strangely, as though she were trying to feign stoicism. "That's . . . that's okay," she managed, though her voice trembled. "I wouldn't do that."

Good Lord, did she think I'd take it as a slight if she wanted to call her mom? Quick as a flash, I was pulling her close so I could comfort her. "It's all right, Bella! She is your mother, after all." _Biologically, anyway,_ I thought wryly. "It's perfectly natural for you to miss her . . . or not miss her, considering the circumstances. I just don't ever want you to feel guilty about it. Feelings are complicated things, and this is a complicated situation on top of that. But you're welcome to call her any time."

I felt horrible when tears started to drip down Bella's face. "Oh, sweetie," I murmured, cradling her head against my chest. "All right, we won't talk about it any more if you don't want to. I just wanted you to know." Bella let out a sob, and I started to rock her. "Shhh . . ."

"I'm s – sorry," Bella whimpered. "I – I just don't want to. I know I should, but I don't." She leaned her forehead against my hand.

"But you might change your mind someday, and if you do, you don't have to ask. Carlisle has the number in his Rolodex." I shifted so I could look her in the eyes. "Emmett keeps in touch with his brothers and sisters. We don't care when or how often he calls. And if there are people from your other homes you'd like to talk to, you can call them, too. If you need us to help you find the numbers, just ask."

Bella took a sharp, shuddering breath and gave me a small smile, but her eyes were still wet and I could see a couple of new tears forming. I felt awful. All I'd wanted to do was let Bella know that she wasn't a prisoner here, and that we didn't expect her to cut herself off from her old life . . . no matter _how_ old . . . just because we were her family now. All I'd succeeded in doing was ruining the happy mood that Jacob's call had created.

I gave my newest girl one last squeeze and stood up. "I'm going to call Billy now, hon. Why don't you find a program to watch?"

Bella scrubbed at her eyes with her sleeve, and again I felt terrible for what I'd put her through . . . and over a subject I should really have known better than to broach so early. But she settled back against the couch and picked up the remote, so not knowing how else to comfort her — or if she even wanted me to — I went back to the kitchen and dialed the number from the Caller ID.

"Hello?"

I was fairly certain it was Jacob again, unless his father had a particularly shrill adolescent voice as well. "Jacob, this is Esme Cullen calling back. Is your father feeling well enough to talk to me for a minute?"

"Well, hold on a second and I'll ask, Mrs. Cullen. He's watching TV, so probably."

It wasn't even a full fifteen seconds before the line clicked and a much deeper voice said, "Mrs. Cullen?"

"Yes, hi, this is Esme." Although naturally Carlisle and I referred to him as 'Billy' when we had discussed the . . . incident, I wasn't about to take that liberty now unless invited, so I was fumbling a bit for what to say. "Well, er, I was calling to tell you how happy Bella was to hear from Jacob. I haven't seen her smile like that since she got here. I wondered if sometime — soon — I could bring her over there for a visit, or Jacob could come here and see us."

I had probably imagined Billy's guarded tone when he first picked up, but in any case, there was no trace of it now. "Well, that would be just fine, Mrs. Cullen. I — "

"'Esme' is fine," I interrupted, immediately feeling like it had been the wrong thing to say. Carlisle's always saying that I give away too much, and that I need to set boundaries. It doesn't, ironically, happen much at home, but for some odd reason I'm something of a pushover when it comes to strangers.

"Esme, then. And don't try calling me Mr. Black; that was my father." I relaxed, because at least this time I hadn't gotten nothing in return. "I don't like to sound demanding this way," Billy continued carefully, "but I can't drive, and Jacob's only just learning, so if it wouldn't be too much trouble . . ."

"Oh, of course. I'll bring her there, then. Not a problem," I reassured him. "When would be good?"

"Well . . . I don't suppose today would work, would it? Tomorrow Jacob might go back to school, and I don't like to keep him out more often than I can help it."

I mentally calculated how much time I had before I had to worry about dinner, and how long the pie needed to stay in the oven. "Today would be fine," I assured him. "I have something in the oven, but we can leave in about forty-five minutes, and as long as we don't stay any later than five, I'll have time to get dinner." I'd leave the steaks in the fridge to start defrosting, and a note for Edward to get things going before I came home.

"Excellent." Billy sounded relieved, and even a little excited. I heard a loud whoop in the background, and I laughed out loud.

"I take it Jacob doesn't mind, either," I said.

"I shouldn't think so," he answered, sounding amused. "I appreciate your being willing to drive."

"Anything for Bella."

"I'll see you in a while, then, Esme," Billy replied. "Bye."

* * *

On the drive out to La Push, Bella was more animated than I had yet seen her. Not that she said anything, except in response to my direct questions, but she seemed ready to bounce right out of the leather bucket seats. I half expected to hear her whine, "Are we _there_ yet?"

The Black house was small and rather old, looking like a miniature barn with its red-painted siding. I was relieved to see that a small ramp led up to the side door in lieu of steps; I wasn't as strong as my husband, and it would have been difficult to help Bella inside if there were stairs to maneuver. I should have remembered that Billy was in a wheelchair, but somehow it had slipped my mind right up until I saw that ramp.

I had barely parked the car when the side door flew open and a young man with long, jet-black hair came careening down the ramp and headed straight for the passenger door. I didn't even have time to lean out and warn him not to hug Bella too hard before she was opening the door to greet him, so instead I leaned past Bella and said, "Careful of her ribs, Jacob."

Jacob didn't answer me, but he kept his arms above Bella's chest level when he wrapped her in a hug. He was a very good-looking young man, I mused as I stepped out of the car and came around to Bella's door. And he seemed positively _thrilled_ to see his old friend. I felt even happier and more excited now than when he'd first called. I had been worried that Bella would pine away for her friends in Seattle; that even when she was well enough to go back to school, she'd find it hard to break into the cliquey atmosphere that pervades small-town classrooms. Even one friend for her was a welcome bonus.

Jacob, who was already quite muscular for his age, was probably in a better position to guide Bella up the driveway than I was, but I couldn't help keeping step with her . . . and keeping my eyes trained on the ground for obstacles. The ramp was well salted, however, and with Jacob holding the screen door wide open, Bella crutched her way through without incident.

"Bella." I heard Billy before I saw him, as he'd parked his wheelchair just inside the door that led from mudroom to kitchen. Bella's hair hung in her face as Jacob led her inside, but I imagined she was wearing that smile again as she leaned down for another hug. The smell of coffee was very strong, and I sniffed hungrily at the air as Bella was reunited with her late father's best friend.

"Why don't you two sit in the living room while we talk?" Billy suggested, once the pleasantries were done with.

Jacob scurried for the kitchen door. "Watch your step here, Bella," he warned her, tapping the toe of his sneaker against the floor. "There's a hump in the floor. Dad gets stuck on it a lot."

"Call me if he gets fresh, Bella," I added, smiling at Bella to let her know I wasn't being serious. Her face went pink before she looked down at her feet, but Jacob wasn't embarrassed in the slightest, grinning as he placed a hand at the small of her back, guiding her carefully through the kitchen door into the tiny living room beyond.

"Coffee, Esme?" I turned to see that Billy had wheeled himself over to the kitchen counter and was retrieving two mugs from a stand placed close to the edge, apparently for easy access. The coffee maker, however, looked harder to reach, set back as it was. Would it offend him if I offered to help?

"Sure, coffee would be great," I said, though I hesitated as I tried to decide whether to go over and help or sit down at the table, where a plastic container of sugar lay open and a carton of milk was set out to act as the creamer.

I hadn't given Billy enough credit, though; he deftly hooked the handle of the coffee carafe with two fingers and, placing the cups in his lap, wheeled himself one-handed over to the table. As I sat, he poured out the cups and set the carafe on a pot holder.

Small talk with strangers has never been one of my talents, so I struggled for something to say while I helped myself to milk and sugar. "Bella told me on the way here that Jacob has two older sisters," I said finally. "Where are they?"

"Rachel's at the University," Billy answered. "She's working through the interterm, and she'll probably go during the summer, too. She wants to graduate in three years instead of four if she can. And Rebecca got married this past summer." He snorted. "Some Hawaiian dude with long hair and this drawl that makes him sound like those kids in _Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure._"

I raised my eyebrows. "Married? How old is she?"

"They're both eighteen. Twins."

"Eighteen's pretty young to be getting married these days," I mused.

Billy looked pained. "It's never been the same since Sarah died. Jacob misses her, but the girls were most affected, both because they were older and closer to her." His hands were gripping the wheelchair armrests so hard his knuckles were turning white. "It's no wonder they both wanted to get away."

I could understand that, but I felt for Billy. He had to be lonely, too, particularly since he didn't work and probably didn't get out that often. It wasn't his daughters' responsibility to take care of him, but it was sad that they'd apparently taken off without a backward glance.

"When Charlie passed, I tried to get custody of Bella," he said abruptly, twirling the coffee cup as he stared past me at the wall. "First they said I couldn't have her because I'd lost Sarah. But I found out that single people _could_ foster children, so I asked again. Then it was my income." He smiled; a very bitter smile. "They knew us Injuns have heap little money, after all. But with the insurance and disability, I was above the income guidelines for four children, and . . . maybe I couldn't have given Bella a lot, but she'd have had enough." I nodded, understanding his anger. Even if Bella had been placed immediately with someone that had access to unlimited financial resources, it wasn't fair that Billy had been denied the chance to adopt his best friend's daughter over what sounded like desperately contrived reasons to me.

"Finally, they looked at my health, and that's where they found what they needed. My diabetes was already giving me circulation problems, and the doctor had said I might lose my legs — or at least the use of them — before too many years had passed." Billy pushed back from the table and spun his wheelchair in a circle. "And as you can see, even the shaman we savages call a doctor is right once in a while.

"And they said we're _so_ sorry, but children need someone who can take care of them, not the other way around," he continued as he settled the chair back into place. "It was okay for my own kids to take care of me, in their view, and okay for them to survive on my income, but it wasn't good enough for Bella. And if they'd gotten her someone kind and strong with a comfortable salary, I'd agree that it definitely wasn't. But we see how that turned out."

Billy couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice, if indeed he were even trying to do so. "Most of those in the system are trying to do the best they can," I said carefully. "But . . . well, I guess what I'm saying is that there's no rhyme or reason for why some of them almost appear to be against the child's best interest. In your case, one would hope that the caseworker really thought Bella would be better off in a two-parent family, maybe one with fewer children. But according to her file, she was in a group home for three months before even getting her first foster placement, which didn't work out anyway. So somewhere along the way, someone forgot to get her a 'better'" — I crooked my fingers to indicate I didn't agree with their definition — "situation." I sighed. "Carlisle and I have . . . seen things that would turn anyone off the system."

Billy nodded, his face grave. "I was so sad to hear about those two little redheaded girls. Old Quil and I were in Newton's one day, and I saw you and your husband shopping with them. The doctor was chasing one around a clothes rack, and you could hear her giggles across the store. Cutest little girls. It was terrible, what happened."

I bit my lip. I didn't want to appear rude, but I wasn't ready to talk about Maggie and Siobhan with Billy. I had trouble talking to Carlisle, even. "Yes, we . . . we're, uh, a bit nervous about the twins — Jasper and Rosalie — as you can imagine, after that. Custody battles are so hard on the children."

"And you."

I frowned. "We chose this. They didn't." Thinking about the girls had made me irritable, but I tried to keep my tone light. "You seem to know an awful lot about our family."

Billy gave me a sardonic smile. "People talk, as you well know, and your family is definitely a hot topic." He leaned forward. "But I'll tell you something," he said, tapping his finger on the table to emphasize his point. "It's pretty much agreed that your husband's the best doctor this town has ever known — or _will_ ever know. He could be making twice as much money over in Seattle, or one of those fancy teaching hospitals out east. But he chose to come here; I'm going to go out on a limb and assume it was for your kids' benefit. And maybe a fishbowl like Forks is hard on them at times, but . . ." Billy shrugged.

"It's better than the city," I finished for him. "At least, we hope it is."

"And the two of you . . . your circumstances are none of my business, but you didn't have to go adopting teenagers if you wanted kids. People with money can find other ways even if they can't have their own. Instead, what do you do? You gather up these older kids, like Bella, that've been kicked around like stray dogs, and you give them a good home and bring them up properly. That oldest boy of yours, the one that's so big? I don't think I know his name."

"Emmett."

"Emmett, then. He and his friends come up here sometimes, get some snacks at the Atearas' store and hang out on the beach, or the whole lot of them come up as a team to play football at the school. And you kind of expect trouble, because of him being so big, or because he's in a group and kids act different in a group. But he's just as polite as can be, and if one of his buddies gets rude, he puts a stop to it. That Coleman boy, the blond one that kind of looks like a horse? He was with your Emmett at the store once, and started pestering Harry's daughter Leah. Your boy up and apologized to her, then dragged that little b — jerk out to the car like a sack of potatoes. I don't know what went on after, but no one's ever seen them together since."

"Emmett and Matthew had a falling out at one point," I agreed. "He didn't say why, though, just told me the kid was a real asshole."

Billy smiled. "That's about right. But you know that might not have mattered to someone else. No one else that age has ever spoken up when the Forks kids tease our girls or make racist comments. That's a good boy you've raised."

I wasn't sure what I should say; _thank you_ seemed a bit . . . well, smug. I don't know if Carlisle and I can take credit for Emmett's behavior; perhaps he'd be just as good with another family, and that sweet nature of his had to have begun earlier than age fourteen. But Billy's praise still warmed my heart. I could feel my face heating up as I stared into my coffee cup.

Billy wasn't finished, though. "I see what you're trying to do, and I respect you for it. And those kids of yours are getting a second chance they probably wouldn't have had otherwise. When Harry told me that Bella was back, but in the hospital . . . you can't imagine what I thought, or how relieved I was to hear you and the doctor were planning to give her a home. And now I see you with her — the way you are _around_ her, touching her and helping her walk and all that, but also how you're willing to make her happy no matter what. Even after what happened between me and your husband, you didn't hesitate to call here."

I shrugged, looking up from the coffee and taking a sip. "I don't care about men's fights. All that matters is that Bella has a friend."

He looked sheepish. "I made a mistake that day. Your husband didn't trespass on purpose, and he's not like the others that treat the Reservation like a garbage can, leaving their trash all around and stripping the trees for firewood. All he was trying to do was spend some time with his boys." Billy looked away towards the window. "Now that I know him — not personally, but about him, and about your family — I feel like a first-class asshole myself."

"Well, I think I've met bigger assholes," I laughed, "but make sure you tone it down around Bella, in any case."

"That's another thing. I know you're busy, and it's rather inconvenient to be driving here too often," Billy began, "but I'd like for Bella to come to dinner here sometimes. She's welcome anytime, of course, but just whenever you can."

"I'm sure she'd like that," I said warmly. "Um, but we . . . we rarely let the kids miss dinner at home. Eating together as a family is very important to us." Then again, this was Bella's father's best friend, and it wasn't like she could see Jacob at school. "So maybe just a couple times a month or so, and other times you and Jacob could come over to eat at our house instead. Carlisle can drive out and get you both on his way home from work, or Emmett can pick you up after school."

"Excellent." Billy looked relieved. He picked up his mug and drained the last of the coffee, then cocked his head towards the living room. "Why don't we see what they're up to?"

I kept a good ways behind Billy, not wanting him to feel rushed as he deftly maneuvered his wheelchair through the narrow hallway. Bella was sitting on the overstuffed sofa; Jacob, perched on an ottoman that didn't seem to match anything in the room, sat facing her.

"Jacob, get that box off my bed, will you?" Billy asked, wheeling himself over towards the couch. Jacob grinned and took off down the hallway. He was back in less than a minute with a medium-sized cardboard carton. It had recently been opened, and the flaps were folded back together clumsily. With one hand, Jacob popped them open and started handing his father what looked like a bunch of leather scrapbooks.

Billy smiled and stroked the covers fondly before looking to Bella. "Harry Clearwater and I took everything from your house right after they brought you to Seattle," he explained, stacking them up one by one on the couch next to her. "Between both of our garages and storage sheds, we've piled up the furniture and whatnot, and there are more boxes like this in the house. I didn't know if I'd ever get to see you again, but figured you might come back someday, even if you were all grown up. It's all yours when you're old enough to get a place of your own. But I thought you'd like the pictures now."

I could see that Bella's hands were shaking as she turned the cellophane pages, and I half expected her to burst into tears. Who could blame her? I wanted to cry myself, and there was a huge lump in my throat that made swallowing difficult. But I needn't have worried; when Bella looked up at me after a moment, her face was shining like the morning sun.

* * *

Ask any parent of teenagers, and they'll tell you that their kids aren't happy unless they're fighting. Ours aren't as bad as some other families, but having so many in one house is bound to cause tension. Even with that understood, however, I never expected there to be problems between Bella and Alice. I didn't exactly expect them when Rosalie joined us, either, but I knew from the start she wasn't going to respond to our family in any manner resembling normal.

Bella was different. I didn't know her whole story yet — I might never know — but just by the way she acted, it was clear that she was at the opposite end of the antisocial spectrum from Rosalie. Rose's fear caused her to lash out, while Bella's made her far too eager to please. So it seemed that she and Alice ought to be able to coexist in perfect harmony.

I bolted up the stairs, not at all sure what I was about to find in Alice's room. I hadn't been able to make out any distinct words, just a few shrieks muffled by the closed door and muted by the distance between kitchen and bedroom. Naturally, no one else even seemed to notice the fracas. All I could think was that someone had broken in — the girls' second-story bedroom would, of course, be a _wonderful_ entry point to a potential burglar. My heart was in my throat, and I didn't even bother knocking first, just rushed right in.

Bella was standing in front of the girls' dresser, her eyes blazing with either fury or fear; I couldn't tell which. The first and second dresser drawers were pulled out, their contents spilled carelessly over the edges and onto the floor. When I came in the room, her head snapped in my direction, and a curiously blank look came over her face. She looked down at her hands, which were gripping the pink sweatshirt I'd bought her so hard that I thought she might tear it. Alice stood a few steps back from Bella, wringing her hands nervously as she looked back and forth between us.

Unsure what was going on, but not liking the possibilities, I kept my voice carefully low. "Bella, honey? What happened?"

Bella said nothing.

I looked to Alice, who could usually be counted on to give a blow-by-blow account of just about anything. "Alice?"

There was a slight pause. "Well," Alice began, carefully watching Bella, "since you bought Bella those new t-shirts and pants, and it was more than she'd had before, I just . . . I couldn't think why she'd want the old stuff. It was all ratty and torn." She looked at me imploringly. "I threw them out. I didn't know her mother gave her that blue shirt."

Now I understood. Alice's meddling sometimes had unintended consequences, and this was one of those times. Carlisle and I had spoken to her before about respecting other people's things, but she seemed to have this compulsion that didn't allow her to comply. "And since the trash went out this morning, I'm guessing the shirt is gone," I finished for her. Alice nodded. "Alice — "

"I know," Alice interrupted, looking ashamed of herself, as well she might. "I know you've told me to ask. I – I just didn't think that stuff was — "

I cut her off. "That's the problem, isn't it, Alice? You don't think. You just go ahead and do what you know to be best." Alice stared at the floor. "We've spoken to you — not once, but several times — about 'managing' others this way," I added sternly. "How would you feel if I went to help you pack for college and decided you didn't need your bear anymore?"

Alice blanched, and her gaze flickered over to Tufty, propped up in the corner of the sofa. She started to wring her hands again as she waited for me to finish. I sighed. "I'd like to talk to Bella, so you'd best head downstairs for dinner. And consider yourself grounded for the rest of this week."

My daughter nodded mutely and headed for the door, stopping to look back at Bella, who'd been silent throughout our exchange. My heart went out to her; her face was streaked with tears, and she was trembling, probably trying very hard not to cry out loud. Some might think she was too old to be getting upset over an old, ratty t-shirt, but they most likely have years of birthday gifts and handwritten letters or cards from their parents. All Bella had was a shirt, and now it was gone.

"Bella?" Alice asked uncertainly. Bella didn't answer, but she looked over in that direction, though her eyes lingered on Alice's feet. "I'm really sorry about your shirt. I didn't know your mom gave it to you." She fingered the edge of the doorframe, then added reluctantly, "If you want, you can take something of mine and throw it away. Even . . . even Tufty." Alice stared miserably across at her sister for a moment, and added in barely a whisper, "I'm sorry." Then I was listening to her footsteps on the stairs.

Bella lay the pink sweatshirt carefully on top of the open top drawer, then crutched over to her bed and sat down with a sigh, propping the crutches up against the nightstand and then staring miserably at her hands. I went over and sat down next to her on the bed, putting one arm around her skinny shoulders and pressing my forehead against the side of her head. For a few minutes, I didn't say anything, just let Bella have her tears. Not that she was bawling, but every few seconds a new tear would fall and leave a dark spot on her navy yoga pants.

"You didn't have much to say to Alice," I said finally. "It's all right if you want to tell her how hurt you are, you know."

"It's all right," Bella muttered.

"You have every right to be angry," I told her. "That doesn't mean you have to hold a grudge for the rest of your life, but I also think you'd be cheating yourself if you just blew it off in order to keep the peace. Alice did something that hurt you, and there's nothing wrong with letting her know that you're upset."

"I don't want her in trouble," Bella pleaded with me. "She didn't know. And she'll hate me for getting her grounded."

I shook my head. "First of all, Alice doesn't have it in her to hate anyone. She knows why she's being punished, and I can tell she understands. Second, even if she did resent you — or if it were one of the others, who would be far more likely to — that's absolutely no reason why she shouldn't be grounded. A thief who gets caught and put in jail probably resents the people he stole from, but does that mean he shouldn't be in jail?"

Bella fiddled with her blanket. "It was only a shirt, though," she protested weakly.

Have you ever loved someone so much that you just wanted to grab their shoulders and shake them? "Bella, I believe I made it clear that Alice is being grounded for not respecting your belongings, something she's been warned about before. It doesn't matter what the specific item was." This was so very frustrating. How to make her understand? "What if," I hypothesized, "you had kept all your money in one of the pairs of socks, and now it was in the garbage? The point is, you have a right to privacy and a right to say what you want to keep. I'm very sorry that anyone in this home managed to make you feel your belongings aren't safe."

But apologies weren't going to bring Bella's shirt back. I cast around for some way to fill the void. "What happened to your things when your dad died?" I asked. "Didn't you have toys and whatnot?"

Bella nodded. "I had them, but when they told me to pack a suitcase, I . . . I just thought they meant an overnight bag. I didn't think I'd never go back. I didn't even pack the duck Dad gave me to sleep with, because . . . I guess I didn't want anyone to say I was a baby for sleeping with a stuffed animal."

"Like Alice?" I grinned.

Bella smiled. "When you're nine, you think you're grown up already," she said. "Besides, Alice seems a little . . ."

"Cracked?"

"No!" she contradicted. "I just meant she doesn't care what people think."

"That's about right," I said with a sigh, thinking of Alice's fierce independent streak. At times, like when she'd climb into Carlisle's recliner and snuggle up against her daddy like she was four years old, I envied the bubbly personality that allowed her to be so forward. At times like these, when her energy went into organizing others' lives for them, I was more inclined to view the same type of behavior as being mulish and overbearing.

"I'll bet that somewhere in Billy's or Harry Clearwater's house is that duck," I suggested. "And a whole bunch of other things. They probably didn't throw anything away except literal trash when they were packing up. I doubt anyone who went to all that trouble for you would toss your toys and mementos." Bella gave me such a beautiful, hopeful smile that I sent up a quick prayer to whomever was listening that I was right about Billy. "And no matter what, you have the pictures. Alice was still wrong, and is still grounded, because she's been warned not to meddle — and because this thing with Billy was a one-in-a-million chance, anyway. But at least it looks like you'll have something to remember your family by in place of that shirt."

"But that's all my dad's stuff," she sniffled. "I have nothing from my mother."

"I doubt that's true. There's bound to be something at Billy's house, or at least I'm certain she's in those photo albums," I said, hoping it were true. "And in any case, honey . . . memories don't have to be tied to objects. I know sometimes it's easier that way, but you managed to remember your dad with nothing from him, right?"

Bella sniffed again, but more quietly this time, as though the crying jag were nearly over. "I have a picture," she mumbled. "And a couple little things."

I nodded and fell silent; there wasn't much to say to that. For a few minutes, neither of us said anything; I just held Bella close and rubbed her arm, thanking my lucky stars that the visit to the Blacks' had happened when it did. I couldn't imagine how upset Bella would be if she didn't have the prospect of going through her dad's things at some point. "Alice made you an offer," I began after a while. "How do you feel about that?"

Bella looked up at me, horrified. "I'd _never_ throw away her bear!" she said forcefully.

"Why not?"

"Because . . . because . . . it's her most favorite thing," she protested. "How could I take it from her? How can you even suggest it?"

I smiled sadly, my hand still rubbing soothing circles on her back. She was such a sweet girl. As upset as she must be, the idea of taking Alice's beloved bear away in revenge was abhorrent to her. "Suppose the bear were to disappear for a few days," I said. "Into the blanket chest in the master bedroom, for example." Bella went quiet, listening. "Giving someone the impression that it was lost forever. But then, if it were eventually returned safely . . . maybe that someone would remember that a little better than being grounded."

Bella scratched at the skin near the edge of her cast while she thought about what I'd said. "I don't want her to think I'd do that," she said after a while.

"Well, it might be uncomfortable at first," I admitted. After all, Bella was the one who had to share a room with Alice. "But think how it will be once you give it back. Alice is a pretty good sport."

I could hear dishes clattering downstairs, and I knew we would be called for dinner any second. I waited, wondering what Bella would decide. It was true that it wasn't a very nice prank to play on Alice . . . but unlike Bella's shirt, Tufty would be returned to his mother in just a few short days. I felt that this might be a way for Bella to start breaking out of her people-pleasing rut, and if she didn't even have this small bit of revenge, there might be enough lingering resentment to cause a rift with her sister. How many times in her life had Bella been hurt without being able to hurt back?

"Just a few days?" she asked finally.

I smiled.


	11. A Rose for a Rose

**Rosalie **_(Warning: Potential rape triggers)_

When rich people want something, they want it yesterday. If not the day before. It never fails.

I told Jazz they'd get tired of fighting for us. He said to keep my fat mouth shut just in case. In case of what? In case they decide to wait after all?

I can see they're getting to him. Carlisle just tries harder with him than with me, so no wonder he's starting to weaken. Alice has Carlisle wrapped around her little finger, but it's obvious he prefers having sons. I'll bet if Mrs. Walker hadn't been so insistent that Jazz and I couldn't be separated, or if they'd had a little less money, they would have just taken him and left me behind.

Jazz wanted me to try. I tried. I let Carlisle touch me when he wants to even though it makes me scared. He came up behind me and pinned my arms down the other day even though he knows how upset I get. But I let him, even though I just wanted to hack at his hands with the knife until he had to let go. I gave him what he wanted because Jazz said to be nice. And it still wasn't fucking good enough.

It's never fucking good enough.

It just figures that Jazz and I always get screwed no matter what we do, and everyone says life isn't fair and you just have to suck it up. Of course I know life isn't fucking fair. But I'll tell you what: I'd sure as hell rather have had Bella's 'unfair' life than my own.

Who told her to run away from home with her boyfriend and shack up with him in a cheap motel like some common slut? I'd never act that way. But she got away with it, and now they brought her here like a new puppy from the pound, and she'll have a nice home and Jazz and I will have nothing.

I don't get what's so goddamn special about her, anyway. Everyone fusses over her broken leg as if people don't break bones all the time. The _poor baby_ needs to be carried everywhere and have everything done for her, and she gets to lay around the house while the rest of us go to school all day.

How'd she like to be bitten all over like Mama did to Jazz? How'd she like hot-oil burns across her whole body? How would _she_ feel knowing she could never have children because she'd been so ripped to fucking pieces inside?

They bought her all kinds of new clothes, Esme took her up to La Push to see Runs With Beer or whatever the fuck his name is, Carlisle gave her a Gameboy, and Edward's all over her like flies on shit. She started out by being a little hesitant, because when you get a new home you want to see what you can get away with, but now she's starting to get pushy. When I went to shower this morning, there she was, humping along on her crutches, ready to hog the bathroom so no one else could use it.

"Excuse me," I snapped as I shoved her back from the door — not hard enough to make her fall or anything, but not gently, either. "Some of us actually have to go to school today." And with that, I slammed the door in her face. I spent my time in the shower imagining her reaction. I'll bet she didn't see _that_ one coming.

She was gone when I came out, of course, and I didn't see her until we were at breakfast. She didn't look at me. I hope she got the message.

It looks like she and Alice aren't talking. They didn't at dinner last night. Alice usually can't shut up, but she was real quiet for once. And after dinner Bella sat with Edward and did some homework that Carlisle got from the school for her. I wonder what the problem is there, and who started it. I don't even know who I'd rather see win _that_ little skirmish. It would be funny as hell if I could be sure it wouldn't affect the rest of us, too. We'll see.

We'd just gotten back from school an hour ago, and I was trying to hide in my room and finish my homework. Emmett and Jazz were in the den playing some stupid video game, and you could hear them bellowing even up in the living room. I don't know why people have to be so obnoxious when other people are trying to work. Even in my room, I could hear stuff banging in the kitchen and Edward's goddamn piano pounding away like a toothache with a sense of rhythm. I gritted my teeth, pressed my hands to my ears, and tried to focus on the page. Every time I thought I had the answer, I'd take one hand away to write it down and the music would send it right out of my head again. I was just about ready to go in there and show him how the Mob deals with little gayboys who play the piano.

Someone knocked at the door, and I was so frustrated I nearly snapped the pencil in two. Why couldn't they just leave me the fuck _alone?_ Nobody cares about anyone else's goddamn privacy in this house!

"Come in," I called, trying not to sound aggravated in case it was Carlisle or Esme. Although what did it matter at this point? They'd be getting rid of us soon anyway. Then it won't matter if I was nice or not.

It was Esme, looking pleased with herself. Probably finished another stupid quilt and wants me to come admire it.

"Hey, sweetie," she said cheerfully, leaving the door open and coming over to the bed. "You studying?"

"Yes, ma'am." _As best I can with your little Mozart in the other room and you barging in on me, anyway._

"Anything you need help with?"

"Uh, no, ma'am, I'm fine." I wasn't fine, actually, particularly with Algebra, but I certainly wasn't about to tell her that and have her hover over me when I just wanted to be alone. If Jazz wouldn't do it for me, I'd look up the answers online.

Esme sat down next to me and nudged at my pile of notebooks. I wondered what she could want. She looked happy enough, so I figured I probably wasn't in trouble. Then again, you never know. Sometimes these 'parents' think if they smile and don't yell, you won't take their criticism as the personal attack it is.

But maybe she just wanted some girl talk, from someone who would listen once in a while rather than talking on and on about herself. I don't know how she puts up with Alice all the time; that girl's mouth runs like it's on a motor. If she were my daughter, I'd tape it shut for her or give her a smack to shut her up.

Esme caught me staring at her pointedly and smiled, then reached for my hand. I didn't realize what she was doing until she already had hold of me, and then when I tried to jerk the hand away, it was too late. She moved so both our hands were clasped together, and I had one sick moment where I thought she was going to break my finger the way Mama had once . . . and then I was free again.

It had all seemed to be happening in slow motion, yet once Esme let me go and I saw how concerned she looked, I realized it was probably only a second that she'd actually held my hand, and I'd been panicking for no reason. "Sorry," I said, feeling a rare twinge of guilt for doubting Esme. She's never been mean to me yet. Even when I get so angry that I start screaming at her, or at him, or at one of their bratty kids, Esme's never yelled back at me or hit me. She yelled at Jazz, though, when he got suspended. I guess if Carlisle prefers Jazz, maybe Esme prefers me. That'll be such a comfort when they drop us off at Social Services, I'm sure.

Esme looked shocked, and maybe hurt. I was kind of glad I'd managed to hurt her even though I wasn't sure what she'd do to me if she got mad. At least I can give a little back before she hurts me for the final time. But then her face went all soft again. "It's okay, honey," she murmured. "I didn't mean to startle you." She opened her other hand for a brief moment, and I caught a glimpse of something shiny there before she closed it again. "I have something for you; I was going to put it in your hand."

Well, now what was I supposed to do? If I accepted whatever it was, I'd look greedy after being so rude. If I didn't accept it, she'd get offended. Not knowing which would be worse, I just repeated, "I'm sorry." I hate that I always have to be the one who's sorry. But what difference does it make? I'm sorry every day of my life, anyway. The sorriest fucking mess you could imagine.

Esme smiled again, and I got the weird feeling she knew exactly what I was thinking. "I love being around you kids so much. Sometimes I forget not to be so forward." She reached out, hesitantly, and this time I let her take my hand, even though my heart was pounding like a jackhammer the whole time. But Esme only gently opened my fingers and laid something very light in my hand before letting go.

I looked, and almost dropped it. It was a necklace, a sparkling gold box chain with a pendant in the shape of a rose. Not one of those cheap die-cut things you get at Wal-Mart, either; the stem and leaves were thick and detailed on all sides, not just the front. The rose itself was made of rose gold, not yellow like the rest, and instead of a flat, vaguely shaped medallion with etching to indicate petals, it was a real, three-dimensional model of a rose, the individual petals perfectly rounded at the edges and tapering inward towards the center, an improbably tiny gold cup. "A rose for a Rose," Esme said softly, watching me.

I licked my lips and swallowed, though my mouth felt dry as bone, and probed the pretty thing with one finger. The gold itself wasn't that impossibly shiny kind that they sell on the Home Shopping Network. It was a luminous, almost satin-finished gold that spoke of real quality . . . and a lot of money. I felt a lump forming in my throat at the thought of how much this must have cost.

"What's this for?" I managed.

She shrugged. "No special occasion. I've been wanting to get you something for a little while now. You've been working so hard with your therapist, and doing so much better with your schoolwork. I wanted you to know that Carlisle and I have both noticed, and we're very proud of you."

Well, shit. Is there anything that anyone could have said that would manage to make me feel so guilty, and for so many things? I don't like feeling guilty. No one ever feels guilty when they hurt me, so shouldn't I be allowed to live without it, too?

"Thank you," I whispered.

Esme tentatively reached out and gave my shoulder a pat. "You're very welcome, sweetie," she said. Then, changing the subject, she asked, "Do you think you could come downstairs and help me get dinner ready? You know we don't like when you kids are all alone."

So that was it. I should have known she'd never give me something for no reason, and I felt my temper rising, ready to tell her where she could shove dinner. But I squashed it. I didn't know that she'd ever tried to bribe me before just to do chores. I mean, it's not like she'd give me a gold necklace to help with dinner when I don't have any real choice but to help if she tells me to.

"Okay," I sighed, stacking my book and notebooks and sliding off the bed. Esme put her hand against my back as we were in the hallway, and I wanted to tell her I could find my own way downstairs. But the tiny little lump in my hand made me stop.

Once we were in the kitchen, I went to the counter where a bag of carrots lay next to the peeler. I put the necklace down out of the way, and Esme saw what I was doing.

"Here, let me put that on you, baby," she said, so I let her. I held my hair out of the way like she asked, even though that meant she was standing behind me with my arm up in the air and my ribs exposed for her. That made me nervous. But Esme only clasped the necklace, then took my shoulders and gently turned me around so she could see. "Very nice," she said admiringly. "It goes perfect with your hair."

"Thanks," I whispered, my mouth all dry again.

Esme adjusted the tiny rose and smiled at me before she went to start the oven up. And that was that. My hands trembled as I viciously peeled the carrots.

I didn't know what to think. On the one hand, why the hell would Esme spend money on that necklace if she were going to stop fighting and let Mama get custody? But on the other hand, maybe it was a bribe, or a goodbye gift. _Here, we have Bella now, so we don't need you and your brother. But you can take this necklace if it'll make you feel better. Have a nice life. _And they _do_ have so much money that maybe a necklace isn't such a big deal to them. Still . . . I don't know. It was so confusing. I guess one more kid doesn't necessarily mean they've given up on us. They have enough room, and of course, they're getting paid to take care of Bella like they are for Jazz and me. Maybe Jazz isn't wrong about them.

I _could_ be a little nicer. It would suck if I gave them that — I don't have much left to give anyone — and they use it to hurt me in the end. If they make us leave, I'd at least like to leave knowing I made it as hard for them as possible. But what the fuck do I have to lose at this point? It could be my last chance.

After dinner, I settled down in the living room without being asked, on one of the sofas in front of the fireplace. Jazz came over and asked if I'd like to play cards, so I said yes, and didn't say anything when he called Alice over to play, too. I even tried to be nice to her while we were playing, though it didn't come out so easy. At least it wasn't Bella, who was across the room, kissing Carlisle's ass like usual. We even kind of had . . . fun.

I hoped I wouldn't have to pay for that fun, or for the necklace, some other way.

* * *

That night, the shark came back. He was in my bed before I knew it. He'd come in and slithered on top of me without any warning, and he was so heavy and slippery that I couldn't make him get off, and when I tried to dig my nails in there was only blubber, so thick and round and slimy that I couldn't get a grip on it.

"A rose for a Rose," he kept saying, his voice like a bullfrog choking on mud. "A rose for a Rose."

He was crushing my chest and I couldn't breathe, and his blubber covered my mouth so the screams only echoed louder inside my head. It was so hot my mouth was burning dry fire cotton I could feel him

_(cutting)_

_(ripping)_

_(burning)_

_(BREAKING)_

me, and the blood starting to run thick and hot so that it soaked my legs and the sheets and mattress beneath. Esme would have to wash the sheets and what about the mattress —

When I woke up in the pitch dark, my heart was hammering away like a horse at full gallop, and I could still taste him in my mouth and feel the wet between my legs. The pressure on my chest felt so real that I thought he was still on me, and I was just as hot and sweaty and tense as I'd been in the dream. I lay in the darkness, struggling to breathe right and straining to see if the shadows _were_ shadows or if they were actually moving.

I was scared to reach for the lamp, thinking he'd only rolled off onto the floor and would leap up and bite my arm off like that surfer in the magazine article, or pull me down and drag me out into the bathroom, which was where I suspected he escaped to whenever I woke. I'd go down the drain with him like in that book about the clown in the sewers, and it would never matter again how awake I was, because it's always dark down there, and no one can hear you scream over the water rushing.

I finally reached over as quickly as I could and tried to turn the knob — why wouldn't the fucker _turn? _— and when light suddenly flooded the room, I sat up and slammed my back against the headboard as I tried to look everywhere at once.

Nothing.

I just sat there, rocking back and forth, wishing I could go somewhere so I wouldn't have to be in this room where the shark could find me again. I was mad at Alice for being so annoying. If I'd still been sharing with her, he might not have come in the first place. He liked to do his thing with no witnesses and then disappear again, leaving me to wonder when he'd be back. Or if Emmett had kept his fat mouth shut and let me share Jazz's room when I'd asked, then he could keep the shark away and maybe Mama wouldn't come see him at night if I was there . . . or at least, if she did, we could fight her off together.

When an hour passed and I hadn't seen or heard anything, I was starting to feel a little better. Not _good,_ but I figured the shark was gone or he'd have gotten impatient by now. But there was no way I could go back to sleep unless I had something to fight him off with. I wished I had a gun. Carlisle doesn't even have one, even with this big fucking rich-people house in the middle of the woods. The best I could do would be a knife from the kitchen.

Quietly, I tiptoed to the door, eased it open, and stepped out into the hall, where I flattened my back against the wall and crept for the staircase. There were night-lights here, but there was no way I was going to turn my back on any of the doors and risk him coming slithering up behind me. I walked down the stairs sideways, trying to keep one eye ahead and one behind. I couldn't get around the corner into the kitchen and turn the light on fast enough.

There were knives in the block on the counter, but I didn't want those. An open knife could be dangerous. I pulled out the drawer next to the sink where the fancy Shun ones were. I took the third shortest one, figuring Esme wouldn't think to miss it, and tested the leather sheath to see how easily it would come out if I needed it. It worked pretty well, and probably wouldn't slip out under my pillow if I were careful not to move my head too much.

I hung around the kitchen a little while. I ran a glass of water and took a pickle and some cheese out of the fridge. My stomach felt really weird, kind of hollow and raw, and water hurts my stomach when it feels like that. Plus I didn't really want to go back upstairs. I could just sleep on the couch . . . Jazz does that sometimes . . . but then when Carlisle came downstairs he'd be all over me like a cheap suit. Nope, I'd spend the rest of the night in my own room even if it meant not getting one wink of sleep.

I left the kitchen light on so I wouldn't have to go upstairs in the dark. They'd never know who it was; that's a nice part of having so many people here.

I shut the door, slipped the knife under my pillow, settled back into bed with the light still on, and waited.

If he came back now, I'd slice open his belly and watch his blood spatter the walls and carpet before I gouged out both of those dead, black eyes.


	12. Bad Day

**Bella**

I have a lot of bad days, but this was somehow worse than even breaking my leg or being kicked out of Arthur Nylund's house at midnight. Because really, I couldn't stand the Nylunds, and even sleeping in James's truck or the motel wasn't terrible by comparison. And if falling down the stairs meant that I got to meet Dr. Cullen and come to stay at his house, I guess it was worth it.

Now I was about to get kicked out of the most beautiful home I'd ever been in — yes, even more than Mrs. Bartel's, because hers was cold and sterile, while the Cullens' is warm and happy — full of nice people that all went out of their way to make me feel welcome. Well, all except for Rosalie.

I should have known it wouldn't last long. Nothing nice ever lasts long for me.

In a way, I was glad I'd taken the money, because at least it was a _little_ security against being on my own again. I don't know that Carlisle will throw me out on the street with a broken leg, but at the very least I'll probably end up back at the group home. I hope he doesn't take back my allowance, but if he does, having the extra $20 is better than nothing.

I'd been absolutely speechless for a long moment yesterday after he gave me the allowance money. Everyone had left for school, and Esme was just heading for Port Angeles to meet a client, when he'd come over to where I was sitting and handed me two folded bills. "Here's your allowance, sweetie," he'd said. "Mostly we give the kids theirs on Fridays, but you missed last week, and I forgot until now."

I didn't know which point to argue first. Was he really going to give me an allowance just like I was his real kid? And pay me for a week when I hadn't even been there? And _twenty-five dollars?_ It must have been a mistake.

"You gave me way too much," I said, my voice shaking as I tried to hand it back to him. "That's . . . that's twenty-five dollars there."

"Twenty-five a week is what you kids get."

"But — but I haven't done anything," I stammered. "I only just got here Friday, and you didn't give me any chores to do."

Carlisle snorted. "Right, Bella, you're really in a place where you can vacuum and do laundry." He held up his hand against the money I was holding out and shook his head. "You kids need money to play with. You can help with little things, like folding clothes or cutting vegetables for dinner, but your allowance doesn't depend on it."

As he busied himself with putting his wallet away and folding the throw blanket that Jasper had left on the couch — apparently, he'd slept down here last night instead of in his and Emmett's room — I thought what it would be best to do. If I took the money, it'd maybe make me look greedy. But . . . I'd learned the hard way that sometimes you have to take what you can get, and _not_ taking it rarely gets you any credit. So finally I just whispered, "Thank you," and slid the two folded bills into my pocket.

"You're welcome, sweetie. Now, what would you like to do today?"

"Do?" What was there to do? "What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, we could watch a movie, or play a board game," he suggested. "Or, hey, it's not raining; we could go to the park and sit in the fresh air."

I really didn't know what to say. "Um . . . don't you have things to do?" I hedged. Why would he waste his day off playing games with me?

Carlisle shrugged. "I have to do a couple loads of laundry, and vacuum the house, but all that shouldn't take more than half an hour or so . . . if you don't count the time the stuff spends in the washer and dryer. So why not?"

"But don't you have things you _want_ to do?" It still wasn't clear to me.

He gave me a gentle smile. "When I have a day off, the thing I like to do best is hang out with my kids." He reached out and tousled my hair. "How about a game?"

"Ah . . . sure," I conceded. So until it was time to eat lunch, we played Scrabble and Monopoly, setting them aside a couple times so Carlisle could switch laundry loads and run the vacuum a couple of rooms at a time. He explained to me that he likes to break chores up sometimes so they aren't so tedious. I wished I could help, but all I could really do was fold washcloths and socks and small stuff that you didn't need to stand up for. Carlisle said I was a big help, but I think he was just being nice.

But it was when we were getting ready to have lunch that I messed up. Carlisle asked what I wanted for lunch, and I said anything was fine, so he suggested pasta. The Nylunds always used to serve pasta because it was simple, and I was rather sick of it, but then he said, "Esme makes her own sauce from scratch and then cans it for later. I think you'll really like it. And her meatballs are homemade with raisins in them." Then I couldn't wait to taste it, because Esme was an _awesome_ cook.

I watched TV while Carlisle was warming up the sauce and boiling the noodles. It only took about fifteen minutes for everything, and he kept coming back to talk to me. He told me that they had a garden in the spring and summer, and that there were literally over a thousand tomatoes last year.

"What do you do with them all?" I wondered. Tomatoes go bad fast.

"Esme cans them. She boils the skins off some of them to make stewed or diced tomatoes so she won't have to use store-bought ones. Then she makes sauce — I don't think we've ever had sauce from the store," he reflected. "Some get pickled. Oh, and the skins she purees into tomato soup."

I was amazed at how hung up these people were on healthy eating. "You're really into fresh foods," I said. "That's so cool."

"Well, when we adopted Alice, she had . . . a few stress-related problems," Carlisle said carefully. "I don't know what she's told you, and Esme and I don't go around gossiping about you kids, but it really made me look into alternative healing methods. Most in my profession only stuff pills into the patients, but if you do a little research, it's amazing how effectual a change in diet can be."

It was giving me a warm, fuzzy feeling to think about that garden. A lot of homes I've been in never bothered with fresh food, just hot dogs and pasta and whatever other convenience food there was. Even my dad was like that, although I know it wasn't because he didn't care about me. He just didn't know how to cook. But the thought of the family working together to harvest food made me very happy for some reason. "I'd like to help with the garden," I said hesitantly. I didn't want to sound all presumptuous in case I wasn't going to be here when they started planting, but the food thoughts had me feeling kind of mellow.

"Oh, that's great to hear, honey!" Carlisle absolutely _beamed_ at me, and right away I felt so much better, even if just because he hadn't said I'd be gone by then. "It's really so much fun, Bella. The kids complain sometimes, especially about the canning part, but there's just something about harvesting food you've grown yourself and putting it away for later. You can't get that feeling shopping at the store."

The timer went off just then for the noodles, and Carlisle got up, motioning for me to follow him as he checked his watch. "Damn, I should have taken you down to Outfitters' today, but we were having so much fun that I forgot," he said. "We've got to get you some more clothes. Esme was kicking herself over forgetting pajamas, and you'll need more shoes."

As I followed him on my crutches towards the kitchen, I tried to find a way to say 'no' without sounding ungrateful. "Oh, no, that's . . . I don't need anything, Carlisle. Esme got me plenty already."

"Bella, you have maybe one eighth of the clothes all the others have," I heard him say as I stared at his retreating back.

"Those are your real kids, though," I said before I thought. And that's always my mistake, isn't it? I can't think fast enough to keep my fat mouth out of trouble.

Carlisle turned around so fast that I almost ran into him, and the next thing I knew he was so close that I almost stumbled backwards just to keep away from him. I really thought he might be going to push me over, the way he was advancing. "What was that, again?" he asked. His voice was cool suddenly, and had a hard edge that I hadn't heard from him before.

"Um . . ." I wasn't sure what to say. He'd probably interrupt if I tried to explain what I'd meant. "I – I meant that . . . that I just got here, and — "

"Rose and Jasper have only been here six months," he retorted. "They're not our 'real' kids, either. I tried to tell Esme that, but she _would_ insist on feeding them and buying them clothes. I don't know what's wrong with her sometimes."

He'd been sarcastic a couple times when we were at the hospital, but this was the first time he'd really directed it at me, and it was scary. Trembling, I whispered, "I'm sorry."

"I should hope so." And he turned on his heel and stomped toward the kitchen. My hands were shaking as I followed him and set out forks and spoons, but I didn't know where the plates were, so I just sat down at my place and stared miserably at my hands. Carlisle didn't say anything as he got our lunch ready, but when he put down the plate of pasta in front of me and I picked up my fork and spoon, he stopped what he was doing to watch as I began twirling the strands of spaghetti against the spoon.

"Is that what the spoon is for?" The anger was gone from his tone, and he just sounded curious now.

I nodded, turning my hands a bit so he could see better. "It makes the pasta twirl into bite-size portions without the strands hanging off," I explained.

"Huh." Carlisle picked up his spoon and tried to imitate me, but he was kind of awkward at it. "I always get a spoon at Italian restaurants. I figured it was for scooping up sauce afterward."

I didn't answer. I picked at my pasta for a little while, wondering if I should speak up or just forget what had happened. _Least said, soonest mended_ and all that. But I really don't like it when things are left hanging, because you never know when the other shoe is going to drop, so I just blurted out, "I didn't mean to be offensive."

"I know you didn't," Carlisle answered immediately, laying down his fork and spoon and reaching out to pat my hand. He sounded so sure, and not angry anymore, that I relaxed. "I know that. But it's a very sore subject in this house, Bella. This isn't a union; we don't work on seniority. You get treated the same as everyone else does. I'm sorry if anyone has made you feel you aren't as important as the others."

"You didn't," I answered. "I just . . . I get nervous when people spend money on me. It makes me scared."

"We're the parents, Bella," he said firmly. "You let us worry about money. You just focus on getting well."

I wanted to believe him, but it just wasn't going to be that easy.

* * *

After being given twenty-five dollars just for existing, with the promise of another twenty-five the next day, I guess it takes a seriously greedy little bitch to do what I did next. But I was really freaked out by the way he'd acted over the 'real kid' business. I'd never seen him get angry, and I almost was starting to think that he didn't _get_ angry. That was me being stupid again, of course. No one stays nice for long, and sometimes things can get downright ugly in the blink of an eye. And if you live through it, your only prize is another house, another set of strangers, and a little bit more borrowed time. Because none of us get out alive at the end.

I eased the door open slowly, hoping it wouldn't creak. The room was very dim, but enough light filtered through the hemp shades that I could see everything I needed to. It was a huge room, by any standards, and the furniture was really beautiful. I couldn't tell what kind of wood it was, but it was heavy and solid and _real,_ not the veneer stuff most people have.

I hobbled quietly over to the bed, making sure my crutches sank gently into the carpeting to hide the sound. No one should be downstairs right now — Esme had taken Alice to ballet and Rose and Jasper to their church for something, and Carlisle was playing catch with the boys in the backyard even though there was a thin layer of snow on the ground. But someone could come in for a drink or whatever, and I was supposed to be napping.

I could see that the right-hand night table had to be Carlisle's, as the other one had Esme's lilac body lotion in a big pump dispenser. Both stands held family pictures in silver frames, and when I sat down on Carlisle's side of the bed, I caught the muted scent of that cologne he wears. I was surprised at the feelings it stirred in me. James always wore Cool Water, and now it made me sick to even think about it. My dad wore Old Spice, and that made me sad whenever I smelled it. I don't even know what it is that Carlisle uses, but that sudden whiff made tears spring to my eyes. I remembered smelling it as he sat next to me in the hospital, and when he drove me home, the heated car was redolent of the same spicy aroma.

He'd been so kind to me, and this was how I repaid him.

His leather wallet lay on the table with his keys thrown carelessly on top. I carefully picked up both as a set and brought them over to the bed so I could slide the keys off without making any noise. The wallet was a Coach, and very soft. Mrs. Bartel had had a lot of Coach pieces, and I knew they were very expensive. It made me feel a _tiny_ bit better that he probably wouldn't miss a few dollars . . . but only a tiny bit.

I opened it up, and the first thing I saw was one of those accordion files of clear plastic photo sleeves. The one on the top was a younger Carlisle cradling a still younger Esme's face in his hands. She was wearing a wedding veil, though it was turned back over her hair. It must have been their first kiss as husband and wife, I thought, tracing my thumb along the plastic where Esme's hair was. They looked so much in love. I wondered sadly if I would ever find someone that loved me the way Carlisle loved Esme.

I flipped that picture over, and the next one almost made me drop the wallet altogether, as it was a close-up of Edward. It must have been the school photo from this year; it had that tacky unprofessional look to it, with the fake blue-sky background. But of course, these were the type of people that probably ordered the Jumbo Pack, with enlargements and more wallet-sized photos than any normal person could ever use. There were dozens of photos of the kids in the living room, stairwells, and even the dining room. That brag book Carlisle had shown me at the hospital was no fluke — these people were seriously obsessed with their kids.

There was an identically formatted picture each for Alice and Emmett, then a landscape shot of the whole family — which must have been taken recently, as it included Jasper and Rosalie — sitting on the living-room couch. No one was missing, so either they'd had someone over to hold the camera, or (what was far more likely) their model had a timer feature. I could just picture Carlisle fiddling with the controls, then rushing over to the couch and trying to act natural before the flash went off. Alice's head was thrown back as she laughed at some private joke. Emmett's grin was contagious; perhaps he'd been whispering to her as Carlisle was out of earshot. Edward had that dreamy look he was wearing the other day after practicing the piano. Rose and Jasper sat slightly apart from the others, though Esme's arm was around Rose's shoulders, her head tilted sideways until her pretty hair fell on Rosalie's shoulder, caramel mixed with buttercream.

The last picture showed two red-haired girls with pale, freckled skin and green eyes. I had no idea who they were, but it was obvious they were related, probably sisters. I carefully slid the photo out and looked at the back of it. _Siobhan and Maggie, 8/4/02_ was written there in Esme's spidery script. Nieces, perhaps, or cousins? I tucked the unsmiling girls back into their sleeve and turned my attention to the billfold. I'd wasted too much time already, and was starting to panic, hoping no one would come in, or _had_ come in already.

Four twenties, four tens, two fives, and six ones. Well, ones weren't going to help me, and he might be more likely to remember that he'd only had two fives. Should I take one of the twenties? People kept closer watch on the big bills . . . but then again, a guy who carried this much cash around probably didn't even look at it. I was pretty sure it'd be safe this time, and the count might not be high enough again to justify it. Then I'd wish I had. I remembered standing outside with no coat on the Nylunds' slippery front porch, and Rose shoving me away from the bathroom, and my decision was made.

I took one of the twenties and carefully tucked it into my pocket, deep so it wouldn't fall out before I could hide it in my bookbag. I slipped the rest of the bills back into the fold, remembering that they'd been closer to the left edge than the right. The wallet itself I placed back on the nightstand, just as it had been lying when I came in, with Carlisle's keys kind of hanging off one end.

I took one last look around their bedroom, feeling sick at what I was doing. These people were so much better than I would ever be, and here I was, proving that I didn't deserve their kindness. But when I tried to imagine putting the money back and having no security against being all alone, I chickened out and got up to leave.

It nearly gave me a heart attack when one of my crutches slipped away from me and started to fall, but I lunged frantically after it and managed to catch the handle with the tips of my fingers, breathing a sigh of relief. _Nice, Bella. Great place to get caught, right in their bedroom when you're supposed to be napping._ I had to hold both of them in one hand for a moment while I smoothed out the bedspread, but finally I was hobbling back towards the door. I kind of peeked around the edge to make sure no one was watching — if anyone had been, they'd have seen me anyway, but I had to at least _look._

I didn't relax until I was safe in my own room and the money was in my backpack with the allowance he'd given me. $45 was more money than I'd seen in a long time, and it made me feel a little bit safe for once. Not a lot safe — $45 doesn't go very far at all when you're on your own — but a little. And I reminded myself that I'd tried being honest and 'good' in the past, and it never seemed to get me any help when I needed it. If Carlisle and Esme got sick of me and threw me out, I'd be thanking my lucky stars that I'd done a little preparing.

But for all that reasoning, it still took a long time for me to fall asleep.

* * *

I don't know if what happened that night was my punishment for stealing from Carlisle, or if it would have happened anyway. I guess it would have, because at that point I'd already done what he'd expressly asked me not to, and he was bound to find out. I just wonder if it would have ended the way it did had I not been sitting on twenty dollars from his wallet.

It had all started the night before, when my hand began giving me real trouble, beyond just a few twinges. I'd felt the pain even at the dinner table, when I tried to pick up my milk glass and found I couldn't grip it properly. It almost slipped out of my hand, and my heart started hammering at the near miss. But I just picked it up with my left hand and hoped no one would notice or care about the difference.

But I couldn't hide the problem when I was trying to crutch myself into the living room after dinner. Then it suddenly got so bad that I had to stop and balance on one crutch so I could shake my hand out. And that time, Carlisle noticed.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he'd asked, his voice so full of concern that I felt my chest tighten up to hear it. No matter what Carlisle says, he always manages to make it sound like he's speaking to the most precious person in his entire existence. I'm not used to that. It makes me . . . sad, somehow. I know I don't deserve it, and I _want_ to deserve it . . . and therein lies the problem.

"Um . . . my hand hurts some," I muttered, massaging the web between thumb and forefinger as I tried to keep the crutches tucked under my arms. Carlisle hurried over and took up my right hand, which was throbbing so badly that I had to bite my lip to keep from yanking it away from him.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

"It's . . . it's all numb here," I said, tracing the web. "I can't grip things."

"It's the Gameboy," Edward said, coming up next to us. "When I first started playing, or even now if I don't play for a while, it really hurts the right hand until your muscles get used to it. It's easy to hold it wrong and make your wrist all numb, too."

Carlisle made a _tsk_ sound and squeezed my hand in both of his. "Poor sweetie," he murmured. "Edward, can you get me an ice pack for Bella?"

"Yeah, sure." Edward took off for the kitchen, and Carlisle picked me up, crutches and all, and carried me over to the couch to sit. "I don't want you playing that game until I feel your hand is better," he warned me. "Understood?"

I nodded, though I felt a little irked that I wouldn't be able to reach Ambi's Palace tonight. But then again, my hand really did hurt, and _had_ been hurting last time I played, so . . . if only there were some way to play without hurting my hand. The game was addictive, I'd found; the last few nights, I'd been really reluctant to shut it off when Carlisle or Esme came around to tuck us in. But he was so gentle when he took the ice pack and towel from Edward and wrapped them around my hand. And when he treated me nicely like that, I felt like I'd do just about anything he asked me to.

I didn't mean to go ahead and play the game, but that night I couldn't sleep. I'd had a bad dream where James came to the house and climbed in our bedroom window to get me. His hands were on me as I woke up, and I could still feel them for a long while after. I wonder how it is we can feel stuff like that in dreams, and have it linger after we wake up? It really doesn't make sense.

I knew I wasn't getting back to sleep, and my leg was driving me _insane._ No matter how I pressed the outside, the itches just wouldn't go away. Carlisle told me that while hair growth isn't anywhere near what it would normally be if the cast weren't on, it still does a little growing, and would undoubtedly itch. Well, he was right. So, needing something to distract me from the maddening sensation, and unable to fall back asleep, I'd taken out the game and played for almost two hours. Two hours that went by in a flash, and made me forget how uncomfortable I was.

But I paid for it the next morning. My hand was so numb that it was a good thing Carlisle came right into our room to carry me downstairs. I couldn't even eat with that hand unless it was just to scoop up potatoes or eggs awkwardly; to cut, or to pick up my glass, I had to use my left hand. And I had to make sure not to use my crutches when they were watching, because it was impossible to hide how much pain that hand was in or how it could barely keep hold on the rubber.

I might have gotten away with it if Carlisle hadn't brought me a glass of water at bedtime for my bromelain. I tried so hard to hold it, but I just couldn't, and the water spilled all over. Luckily, it was only my throw blanket that got really wet, so I didn't have to change or anything, but now the game was pretty much up.

As Carlisle gently massaged my hand, staring at the tiny muscle that kept visibly twitching the whole time, his expression darkened. "Bella," he said, low, "have you played with your game since I asked you to stop?"

I bit my lip and then nodded slowly.

Carlisle let out a frustrated sigh. "Let me have it, please," he ordered me sharply.

My insides quaking at his tone, I reached over toward the night table and opened the drawer, fumbling for the little clamshell that I'd tucked between my treasure box and the side of the drawer. I held it out, and Carlisle took it from me roughly, his fingers pinching mine hard. "I don't at all appreciate being lied to," he said, clearly beyond irritated.

"I never lied," I protested meekly, trying not to cry even as my heart sped up. I hate it when people get angry at me.

"You promised me you wouldn't play with this until your wrist was better. And you did it anyway. That isn't lying?" His voice was starting to get louder, and I just wanted to turn over on my side and curl up so he couldn't yell at me anymore.

"I wasn't going — I didn't — I hadn't _planned_ it," I stammered nervously. "But I woke up last night and couldn't get back to sleep, and then I started thinking about this level I was having trouble with, so I took it out."

"Did it make your hand hurt again?"

"A little . . ." A lot, actually, but I wasn't going to tell him that.

"So instead of trying to get back to sleep, you disobeyed me and did something that you could feel was hurting you even as you did it. That's very smart, Bella."

"I _did_ try. I _couldn't_ sleep," I said, my voice cracking.

"Why not?"

"My leg was itching."

"Bella, I know how uncomfortable it is for you, but I hardly think playing your game was the sole option available," he said. "How am I supposed to trust you now? I've asked you not to take anything but the bromelain because the NSAIDs might stop your bones from healing, and you said you wouldn't. How do I know you won't take some now?" I watched as Carlisle shoved the Gameboy into the kangaroo pocket of his sweatshirt. "It's so nice to know that people actually take my advice, me being a doctor and all," he added caustically.

I lay silent as he pulled the covers up to my chin and snapped off my light, then stalked over to Alice's bed to do the same for her. Alice's "'Night, Daddy," was rather subdued, but Carlisle answered her nicely enough before he left, shutting the door a lot harder than necessary as he did. Once he was gone, I let out a shaky breath that I'd been deliberately holding ever since he'd stood up to leave.

"Boy, Daddy's sure in a pissy mood tonight," Alice remarked. I barely heard her. I could feel the sobs rising in my chest, and I was afraid to breathe again in case they all slipped out at once. I didn't want anyone to hear me crying, especially Alice. Not when I still hadn't told her about Tufty.

I turned over on my side, careful to keep my leg in the foam pillow's contours, then quietly huffed into my pillow — quietly and _slowly _— as Alice thrashed around in bed. I pressed my hand to my mouth and tried not to think about what he'd said. I didn't want to cry.

Well, I lost that battle. All it took was remembering him grabbing the Gameboy out of my hand, and his "That's very smart, Bella," and suddenly I let out a sharp moan before I could choke it down. And it's always been this way with me: once that little bit got out, that was it, and I couldn't stop crying. I wasn't _very_ loud, and I don't think anyone outside the room would be able to hear unless they were pressed against the door, but certainly Alice heard. Next thing I knew, she was scrambling up onto the bottom of the bed and crawling up next to me.

"Bella," she said frantically, "don't be upset! Daddy just got a little snippy. Maybe something happened at work today; he was kinda quiet at dinner, now I think on it." She lay down facing me and gave me an awkward hug. "Shhh . . ." It made me so sad to see how kind she was. Alice had been a little cool around me since Tufty vanished, but she was never mean, not like Rose who had no _reason_ to be, and I felt horrible now that she was trying to help me. I didn't deserve these people.

"I didn't throw Tufty away," was all I could manage. "He's in your mom's blanket chest." And then I just buried my face in the pillow and cried as loudly as I dared to. I could feel Alice petting my head and heard her trying to shush me, but it didn't help. I wanted her to leave so I could be alone to wallow. So many things were running through my head. I was scared about what might happen when I woke up tomorrow. Where would I go? Who was I supposed to stay with? Would Carlisle let me stay if I said I was sorry? No one could make him, and if he didn't feel bad about letting me go, there was nothing I could do. That's what scared me the most: there was nothing I could do to make things right.

Like I always do when things get to be too much, I tried to force my mind to find that black place where there are no thoughts or feelings, only darkness and stillness. Being there doesn't solve anything, and when you wake you still have to face the horrible things, but it's somewhere to go when you're just so sad and scared that you can't take what's happening to you.

Eventually, I found it, and then I didn't have to think anymore.


	13. It's Doctor Cullen, Not Mister

**Carlisle**

Off the record, I've come to believe that anyone involved with the foster care system that doesn't go mental after the first year must have been mental to begin with. Anyone who actually _works_ in that capacity isn't just mental; as far as I'm concerned, they've careened headfirst into the land of no-holds-barred batshit insanity.

Take Penny Chapman, the Seattle Director of Social Services. From the moment we'd been shown the twins' files, and she began buttering us up to take Jasper and Rose, Penny had promised just about everything shy of million-dollar trust funds to help us with both kids' myriad issues.

Yes, that was a slight exaggeration on my part; speaking with idiots tends to bring out my sarcastic side. But we absolutely were promised state-subsidized intense (read: frequent) therapy for both the twins, which never materialized, and if Mrs. Chapman thought I was going to say, _Oh, okay, no problem, we have nothing better to do than bail the state out . . . again . . ._ then the woman obviously didn't know me very well.

"What I'm failing to understand," I said in measured tones, adjusting the telephone receiver so it lay cradled between my cheek and shoulder, "is why you would wish to end the relationship that Jasper and Rosalie have built with their therapists in favor of the one you have chosen. Is what I'm asking truly so unreasonable?"

"Mr. Cullen," she said again, "I — "

"Doctor," I interrupted testily, drumming my fingers against the mahogany desk.

"I beg your pardon?"

"As well you should." This conversation was a lost cause, anyway. "It's _Doctor_ Cullen. I am a doctor."

"Very well, _Doctor_ Cullen. As a _doctor,_ I am certain that you do not work for free. Do you suppose doctors of psychiatry are any different?"

"If you had no funds, you should have said so at the time, _Mrs._ Chapman." _God help your husband, poor man._ "You did not merely comment that frequent therapy would be necessary, you came right out and offered the state's help — I imagine you thought we would walk away otherwise."

"That is — I offered because I had every intention of finding them therapy," Penny spluttered, "but I have to answer to people, too, _Doctor_ Cullen."

I sighed. I could certainly understand that hers was not the final word in this, but she was getting off topic. Or perhaps I had led her there. It was all starting to blur. "Ma'am, I understand that, but now that you have the funds, why are you unable to simply put that much money towards — "

She interrupted me again. "For the exact same reason that indigents are given food vouchers rather than cash, Dr. Cullen. We would have no way of knowing what the money was being used for."

Esme has told me numerous times that if you smile while speaking to a difficult client — or whatever Penny Chapman was to me — your voice actually sounds warmer, even if your thoughts are tending towards murder. I therefore pasted a huge, fake grin on my face that probably more resembled the Grinch's leer than any expression of happiness, and said, "No, I suppose you wouldn't. Thank you _very_ much for your time, Mrs. Chapman. If at any time in the future you should find your head _outside_ your ass, please feel free to give me a call." And, smile intact, I slammed down the receiver.

* * *

That was the mood Bella found me in when I'd checked her wrist last night. I'm not saying that it should excuse my behavior, but . . . being a foster parent can be seen as a thankless job, depending on your stance. It stings when you reach out with your whole heart to comfort a hurt child, only to be rebuffed, perhaps aggressively. The panic that sets in as the children you've tried with all your being to nurture are snatched back by a system that seems indifferent on its best days and downright malicious on its worst is of the stomach-clenching, chest-crushing variety that I would imagine many heart attack patients fall victim to as their left arms go numb and the room goes dark around them.

There are plenty of rewards, of course. Seeing those young faces looking up to you for help with life's trials has to be one of the sweetest experiences in the world. Holding my baby girl on my lap as we watch TV in the evenings, and having her there to greet me every day when I come home from work . . . watching my boys become so absorbed in their sports and music that the rest of the world fades away . . . Those things cannot be bought with money, and there are no substitutions.

Being a doctor is its own mix of reward and frustration, and there is nothing more frustrating than trying to help a patient who's old enough to listen . . . and also old enough to completely disregard your instructions. That was my excuse. It wasn't a good one, but it was all I had as Alice entered the kitchen the next morning.

"Morning, sweetie," I said, bending to kiss the top of her head as I walked by her with a stack of plates. Usually, Alice launches herself at me first thing in the morning, as though to reassure herself that I'm still solid and alive after our long night spent apart. This time, she only crossed her arms and gave me a glare that could have frozen magma.

"Maybe for _you_ it is," she snapped. "_You_ didn't cry yourself to sleep last night."

I hope no one would believe that I was so callous and heartless as to have completely forgotten my exchange with Bella the night before, but it still gave me a shock to hear Alice's bitter words. I should have known better, of course, but I actually assumed Bella would be angry rather than sad after the way I'd snapped at her, and perhaps that was why I hadn't gone back into the girls' room to apologize right away. I hadn't been able to help snapping at her, but if I'd had any idea it would hurt her so badly, I wouldn't have been able to make it out the door before rushing back to comfort my poor girl.

Alice was prepared to fight for her newest sister; that much was evident from her stance. If it weren't such a serious situation, it would have been hilarious — this 4'10" sprite glaring up at me as though she were about to head-butt her 6'5" old man.

Apparently, there was some serious damage repair needed this morning. I didn't say a word, but I did reach out to tousle Alice's silky brown hair as I walked past her on my way out of the kitchen. She ducked away from me petulantly, and I sighed. Daughters are a real treasure when you're on their good side. When you're _not_ . . . well . . .

* * *

When I opened the girls' door in response to Bella's soft "Come in," she glanced up at me from her cast leg, whose foot she was attempting to encase in one of the fluffy socks Esme bought her. The white ankle sock she wore to bed was already on because Alice had undoubtedly helped her last night, but she couldn't seem to make this one work. When Bella saw who it was, however, the hand tugging at the sock stilled, and she dropped her gaze to the floor.

"Hey," I said softly, closing the door behind me and crossing the room to stand in front of her. Bella didn't say anything, and her uncombed hair hung around her face like a curtain — or perhaps a shield — making it impossible for me to see her expression. "Here, let me help you." I sat down next to her and took hold of the dangling sock.

Bella kept very quiet as I covered her foot, and even when I was done, she only stared at the floor, fiddling compulsively with the edge of her t-shirt. The quick glimpse I'd had of her face when I came in told me she'd barely slept the night before; the circles under her eyes were even more pronounced than usual, and her whole face had the haggard, pinched look of someone who was trying very hard to stay awake and alert. "I'm sorry, Bella," I said, gently tucking her limp hair behind her left ear. "I'm so sorry, honey."

If it were Rosalie, I would expect a disdainful sniff, or perhaps silence. From Alice, depending on how much she thought I deserved to suffer, I might get either a "Hmph" or an immediate "That's okay, Daddy. I love you." I was prepared for any of those. What I was certainly _not_ prepared to witness were Bella's shoulders hunching as she wrapped her arms around her stomach, leaning forward until her forehead almost touched her bent knee. I automatically tried to pull her back, knowing that her ribs couldn't take that kind of pressure, but before I could say anything, Bella whimpered, "Please . . ." before bursting into tears.

"Sweetie, what's wrong?" I asked, bewildered, tugging carefully at her shoulders until she sat upright again. I slid forward, almost to the point where I was closer to sitting on the floor than on the bed, and gently turned her chin so she faced me. I was horrified to see how miserable she looked, with the tears flowing down her cheeks and her nose already running no matter how she tried to snuffle the mucus back. "Baby, talk to me, please," I said desperately. What could have upset her so badly? How could an apology make someone fall so completely to pieces? "Everything's all right; why are you getting so upset?"

It took Bella a long moment to answer, during which her frail shoulders heaved with the force of her sobs. "When you said, 'I'm sorry,'" she finally choked out, "I thought you were going to say 'It's not working out' right after." She pressed her hand to her mouth again, and I panicked when I found myself fumbling for words, hoping I could find a way to reassure this poor girl. Her next words were garbled by tears and muffled by her hand. "That's how I always end up l–leaving."

"No, sweet girl," I murmured, pulling her tight against my chest and gently rubbing circles on her back. Her skinny shoulder blades felt like birds' wings under my hands, as though they might snap with just the tiniest bit more pressure. "No, no, no . . ." Bella let out a muffled wail against the front of my shirt, and I squeezed her as tightly as I dared. "Shhh . . . Bella, baby, that's not how things work here. We had a little disagreement, that's all." _Well,_ I_ had the disagreement,_ I admitted to myself. "I had no right to snap at you like I did. I had a very bad day, and I got frustrated when you didn't listen to me . . . It's not a good excuse, but that's why it happened." I pressed my face against the top of Bella's head, and my next words were spoken into her hair. "But it's not the end of the world, lovey. It's just a little argument."

Bella was quiet for a moment — she didn't speak, in any case, though she still sniffled frequently, and her attempts at deep breaths ended up being all shuddery and shallow instead. "I just . . . I was scared when I woke up in the dark the other night. The game gave me some light, and something to do so I didn't have to think," she finally said.

I sighed. "I can see that, Bella. I wish you trusted Esme or me enough where you could come wake one of us up when you're scared. We're here to help you, but we can't read your mind. You have to ask sometimes." Bella didn't respond, so I went back to an earlier subject that had been needling at me since her crying began. "You'll _never_ be asked to leave, sweetie. I doubt I can ever really make you understand that, but it's true. Every family has little fights now and again. I was a little frustrated about the Gameboy, but now I'm holding onto it for a while so you aren't tempted. So . . . that's that." I released my newest daughter and pushed her back a bit so I could look in her eyes. "Can we both forgive and forget, then?"

Immediately, Bella nodded, and I found it ironic that that wasn't the response I was hoping for. Obviously, I wanted, even expected, to be forgiven for hurting her feelings . . . but I think I would have liked it better if she took some time to think first. Her eagerness made me feel like she would have gone along with anything I said just to be agreeable, and so I could never really be sure that her forgiveness had been sincere.

But despite occasional evidence to the contrary, I _had_ learned a great deal of patience in the six years that Esme and I had been parents, and I knew that the only way to gain Bella's complete trust was to earn it. No matter how much time it took, or how slow and frustrating the process, I knew from our three 'youngest' that it was indeed possible. And I was willing to wait as long as I had to.

I smiled at Bella and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "Thank you, sweetheart. Now, how about some breakfast?"

Bella sniffled again and nodded, scrubbing her sleeve across her red-rimmed eyes. I _tsk_ed as I took in her disheveled appearance. "You go get cleaned up, all right, Bella? I'll be back up in five minutes to bring you downstairs."

"Okay," Bella whispered. I helped her stand up and get steady on her crutches, then watched as she hobbled down the hall towards the bathroom the girls all shared. When she was finally inside, with the door shut behind her, I heaved a huge sigh and leaned my forehead against the bedroom doorframe.

Six-thirty, and already I felt like getting back in bed.

* * *

Quiet never lasts long, does it? Morning gives way to evening, and suddenly the crisis meter hits the low mark, making it imperative that someone create a new conflict.

Rosalie, like her brother, tries to keep a low profile most of the time. But she has certain triggers that send her alternately into screaming rages or helpless panic attacks that only Jasper can ever seem to bring her out of. That's why I didn't immediately rush downstairs when I heard her raised voice loud and clear from the master bathroom. I sighed, finished toweling my hair dry, and slowly trudged downstairs to see what the problem was _this_ time.

The shouting had stopped by then, and all I could hear were whispers from down underneath the freestanding staircase. As I padded down the steps in my stocking feet, the words got clearer, and I could tell it was Jasper speaking while Rosalie only sobbed. Esme would have known how to calm her, perhaps, but she was still upstairs in the shower. Somehow, I'd either have to handle this myself or pull her wet and dripping out of the bathroom . . . and then I might just forget the kids altogether.

The living room was quiet except for the TV blatting at a lower-than-usual volume, and Alice's anxious face peered around the corner at me. I would have preferred to ask her what happened, but I wouldn't be able to speak to her without being overheard by the twins, who were right behind me at this point (though separated by the staircase).

"Goddamn it, Rose, do you want to get us kicked out again?" I heard Jasper hiss furiously as I came around the corner. "You think picking a fight with their son is smart?"

I cleared my throat, and both Rosalie and Jasper jumped. Rose's tear-streaked face was still angry, but now she looked scared, too. Jasper, who'd been standing closest to me and with his back turned to boot, whirled around and hissed like an animal before realizing who was behind him. His expression turning to one of chagrin, Jasper slowly backed up so that he was in front of Rose, as if to protect her from me, his face wary.

"Sorry," he muttered. "You, uh, you startled me. I didn't mean . . ."

"I think we need to have a talk. Both of you," I replied evenly, pointing down the hall towards my study. "Go on, now."

Jasper glanced at Rose, but she was staring down at her feet, arms crossed tightly against her chest. He reached out and placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her past me with a cautious glance in my direction. I stepped back to allow them plenty of room to pass, and watched their retreating backs as they filed into the room.

I took a moment to myself before I followed them, trying to get my mind in a place where I could approach this calmly. It was one of those intensely frustrating times — two of my kids in one day had made mention of being 'thrown out' now. That's one of those things that, far from losing its sting, actually gets worse each time you hear it, because you tend to assume that time will prove your good intentions. Having it thrown back in your face out of the blue — twice, at that — isn't a particularly joyous experience.

When I entered the study after a few moments of inner struggle, shutting the door gently to afford us some privacy, the twins were sitting on one of the leather sofas in my little 'family conference corner,' where we often end up for talks like the one I was about to initiate. Rose was sitting hunched over with her arms wrapped around her stomach, just like Bella had this morning, as though she felt ill, or in need of protection. Jasper's right hand was rubbing her back, but his eyes were trained on me as I settled down on the sofa opposite them.

I didn't say anything, just stared back with what I hoped was a neutral expression until Jasper looked away . . . which took all of five seconds. "Look, we're sorry we caused trouble," he stated uneasily. "Rose shouldn't have gone off on Emmett."

"I'm not sorry," Rosalie hissed. Jasper, looking frantic, tried to quiet her by placing his hand on her arm, but she threw him off. "I told him to leave me alone, and he _wouldn't listen._ None of them ever _listen_ to me!" Rose's violet-blue eyes sparkled with tears of pure rage.

I sighed and stood back up, reaching out for Rose even as she backed away. "Rose, I'm not going to hurt you. Just calm down," I said.

_"Don't you touch me!"_ she screeched.

"Rose, _please,_" Jasper whispered desperately. "_Please_ don't."

I backed off, placing several feet between Rose and myself. "All right," I said softly, keeping my tone neutral. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to figure out how I was supposed to handle this situation. Rosalie's chest was heaving, either from rage or because she was trying to hold in a sobbing fit. Jasper was trying to comfort her, but all the while watching me sideways, as though thinking I might attack him. I decided that the best course of action would be to address him directly, which would, in turn, _in_directly let Rosalie know where things stood.

"Jasper, I don't like one bit what I heard from you just now," I told him point-blank. "I don't know what, if anything, anyone here has said or done to you to make you think that you'll be 'thrown out,' but that is not the case. The only thing that could happen to make you leave is some hiccup with the court system, which I'll do my utmost to prevent. I want to promise you it won't happen, but . . . sometimes things don't work as they should." Lord knows we'd found that out the hard way with Siobhan and Maggie.

"She's always getting us kicked out!" he roared, gesturing at his sister. "Anytime a man even _looks_ at her, she goes apeshit and starts throwing a tantrum. No wonder they got sick of us!" Jasper glared at Rose with a mix of hatred and despair in his eyes. "I know she's scared, but I'm so tired of moving."

Rose's eyes snapped with fury. "You're hardly one to talk," she protested hotly. "All those fights you get into at school. All your screaming and fighting at _home._ You _hit_ Mr. McKenzie, for Christ's sake!"

"He'd just hit _you!_ You sure weren't complaining when we got taken out of there!"

"All right, you two, _stop_ it," I said, and I was immediately ashamed at how harsh it sounded. Both of them flinched, and Jasper instinctively moved forward a bit so that he partially blocked Rose's body with his own. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to sound angry. I'm not," I reassured them. "But this is . . . we need to get a few things straight here." I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I tried to gather my thoughts.

"Rosalie, Emmett may seem like an oaf to you, but he's really a big teddy bear underneath," I explained to her. "He has a heart of gold. I will _never_ betray your confidence, but I assure you that if he knew what you had been through, he wouldn't even dream of teasing you. In fact, he'd probably hunt down your stepfather and rip out his throat, and I'm too tired to help cover up a murder right now.

"But surely you can understand that without him knowing your circumstances, teasing like that seems harmless enough," I continued. "Esme and I don't make unreasonable demands on any of you kids, because we know it's not always black and white. We just ask the same tolerance from you. I will explain to Emmett that he has to stop when you say 'no.' And he will."

While I'd been speaking, I had also been moving slowly towards Rosalie, hoping she'd calm down enough to let me touch her. My arms ached with how much I wanted to hold this poor girl and make her feel safe and loved, probably for the first time in her whole miserable life. "But don't lump him together with the men out there that hurt women for sport," I pleaded with her. "That isn't the case.

"Jasper." I turned my attention to my son, who was staring at his shoes. He flinched a bit at being addressed, but didn't look up. "Look at me." Slowly, Jasper raised his eyes until he was at least staring in my general direction, though our gazes didn't meet. "Don't ever again let me catch you telling your sister she can't stand up for herself. Under no circumstances will you ever be 'thrown out' of our home, and Rose has every right to tell someone to leave her alone."

"Yes, sir," Jasper muttered reluctantly.

"I don't like what I'm seeing between you," I continued, reaching out and stroking Rosalie's hair. She didn't protest. "Brothers and sisters don't always get along, but I sense that underneath everything, you two love each other so much that maybe you're afraid to get too close." I leveled my gaze at Jasper. "Is that fair to say?"

Jasper scuffed one shoe on the carpeting and didn't answer. "Jasper? Are you afraid you'll be separated again?"

"Maybe," he finally muttered.

"Look at me." Again, Jasper's eyes rose to where he was at least looking in my direction. I stepped toward him slowly, trying not to make any sudden moves, and gently raised his chin until his eyes, however reluctantly, met my own. "I swear to you that we will never make you leave our home. Like I said, I can't promise that you'll never leave us — we've fought the system in the past, and lost — but we _will_ fight, and under no circumstances will _we_ be the ones to initiate any separation. Is that clear to you?"

Jasper wasn't able to maintain eye contact the whole time, and I had quite the task in beating back the anger that threatened to take over as I imagined what had to have happened to make this young man so ashamed. But his shoulders relaxed a bit, and he didn't look quite so scared now. "Yes, sir."

"Rose — and you have to tell me the truth, as there's no sense wasting time and money otherwise — do you like the therapist you're seeing? Do you feel she listens to you and helps you?" I asked, turning my attention to my daughter.

Rosalie stared at the fireplace, her gaze stony. "She's fine," she answered in a clipped tone.

"I think maybe it would be a good idea to have you go three times a week instead of two," I decided. "Either to Dr. Phillips, or someone else, whichever you prefer. Maybe a combination? Sometimes it's nice to get other points of view."

Rose didn't say anything for a moment. Her lips were tight when she replied, "I won't be any trouble."

I stared at Rosalie, aghast. "My God, Rose, it isn't a _punishment._ I just want you to feel better, as _much_ better as possible! Don't you feel relieved when you get things off your chest, or work through some problem that's been bugging you?" I asked.

Her gaze flickered to my face, then down to her hands. She shrugged. "Well, yeah, I guess," Rosalie muttered.

I was really confused. "Then why wouldn't you want to go more often?"

"I just . . . I don't understand why, I guess. I only got to see a counselor a few times after . . . it happened. And now it's been a couple years. So what's the point?"

I smiled sadly. "Rosalie, everyone in this family sees a therapist. Some more than others, but all at least every couple of months. Including me. And Esme."

"You complain _already_ about how much it costs," she hissed.

It only took a second to realize that Rose must have overheard my conversation with Penny Chapman. "Rose, you know that saying about how eavesdroppers never hear any good about themselves?"

"If you're complaining about me, I have a right to know!" she cried. "I _need_ to know. You didn't say anything to _me_ about it! So what am I supposed to do, just sit around and wait for you to decide it's too expensive and throw us out? At least if I listen, I'll have some warning."

"Rose," Jasper moaned softly. "Rosie, why are you doing this?"

"Rosalie Hale," I began, trying my best not to sound impatient, "you have absolutely no right to judge me based on _one end_ of a conversation that's been building for _months_. What I was trying to explain to the director was that I would rather not rip you away from your current psychiatrist just because they've suddenly decided, after six months, to provide you with one like they promised way back when we were discussing taking you. A much cheaper and less practiced one than Dr. Phillips, I might add."

"Then it _is_ too expensive. That's all I'm saying: you don't have to spend all that money. I don't need help."

"You _do_ need help, Rosalie. And I am perfectly happy to pay for your treatment. What I am not willing to do is let Social Services take advantage of Esme and me because they know we wouldn't let you go without what you need to get better. I suggested that they up our stipend a bit to help instead — _not_ because we can't or won't pay for therapy, but because they haven't been holding up their end of the bargain to help you. I don't expect that we'll ever see that help, but am I supposed to just let her off without even a word of complaint?"

Rose studied her nails for a moment before muttering, "I guess not. If they promised to pay, they should."

"Thank you for understanding, Rose," I said, kneeling down so I faced her at eye level. "I love both of you very much," I added, hoping I could somehow convey my sincerity in a way they would both understand. "In this family, we don't play favorites. You don't argue with 'our son'; you argue with your brother. And there is no 'throwing out' of people in this house. The only time we've voluntarily let a foster child go was when a young boy tried to hurt Alice." I expected a reaction from Jasper, and I was not disappointed — his head snapped up, his eyes actually meeting mine, and he looked as furious as when he'd been telling me about Courtney Meehan last Monday. I smiled gently. "I understood the pain he was in, but he needed help we couldn't give him, and Alice was not going to be put in danger. So as long as Jazz here keeps his paws to himself, you're safe."

He looked outraged. "I wouldn't _ever _— "

"I know you wouldn't," I interrupted. "So do we understand, then, the boundaries?"

Jasper's mouth snapped shut, and he nodded mutely, his expression considerably more relaxed than before. He looked at Rose, who sat with her eyes boring holes in the carpet. "Rosie?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

After a moment, Rose nodded, too.

"All right, then," I said, hardly daring to hope that they felt much safer, but grateful that this crisis, at least, appeared to have passed. "Look, why don't the two of you run downtown and get us some ice cream?" I reached into my back pocket for my wallet, took out ten dollars, and gave it to Jasper. "Get a couple half-gallons of whatever." _Please, no marshmallows . . . or fudge . . ._ "It might do you good to get out of the house for a few minutes."

Jasper took the money hesitantly, fingering the bill as though wondering if he should say anything. "Uh . . . Esme won't like me taking the car, and I don't think Rosie should drive," he said carefully, sounding as though he expected me to snatch the money back.

"We're leaving tomorrow to go camping, so I don't see where there's any point in keeping you grounded for the last few hours," I reasoned. "Besides, son, sometimes things can be a little flexible. We're not unreasonable, you know?" I stood up and opened the study door, motioning for them to leave. Rosalie went out first, and when Jasper walked past me, I gently touched his shoulder to hold him back.

"Be careful," I warned him. "It's cold, and there may be ice. And _please_ wait until you're parked somewhere before you try to discuss anything that might be upsetting." Jasper nodded, and I smiled at him, tousling his wild mane of curls. "Go on."

"Thanks for letting me use the car," Jasper whispered, still not meeting my eyes. Then I was looking at his back as he bolted down the hall after Rosalie.

* * *

I found Emmett sitting at the kitchen table, staring moodily at a glass of juice. He looked up as I came into the room, and when I sat down across from him and raised my eyebrows, he started to twirl the drink nervously, sloshing the amber liquid up the fingerprinted sides of the glass. "Is she okay?" he asked.

I nodded, hoping I was telling the truth. "She'll be fine. But you and I have to talk."

My son looked sheepish. "Yeah, I know I messed up," he said. "I was only teasing her like I do Alice. I keep hoping she'll get used to us and want to play."

I rolled my eyes. "Even Alice might not consider what you do 'playing,'" I told him. "Plenty of times she's come crying to me to make you stop."

Emmett's face broke into a mock-evil grin. "That's all part of the game, you know?"

Emmett had the sweetest nature a parent could hope for, but somehow that made his few pockets of immaturity seem worse. I wondered if Rosalie would mind my borrowing one of her Xanax . . . "I have a headache in my eye," I murmured, leaning back in my chair and pressing my fingers to my temples.

"Rose was hurt, wasn't she?" Emmett asked, suddenly quiet and serious. "Like, raped. Right?"

I was astounded by his uncanny percipience, but hoped I didn't show it. It's not that I consider Emmett slow — far from it — but he's not typically very sensitive to how others are feeling unless they spell it out for him. "That isn't something I'd be able to discuss either way," I replied, trying not to betray any of my own feelings in words or expression.

"No, I know," Emmett said hastily. "I wouldn't want you to. But . . . well, I'll treat her as if, okay?"

"As long as you don't pity Rosalie or act as if she were made of glass, yes," I answered him cautiously. "After all, there's something to be said for setting expectations. We want Rosalie and Jasper to feel comfortable with us as a family, which can't happen if we're always whispering and tiptoeing around their reactions. But please remember that Rosalie isn't to be teased like Alice. 'No' means 'no,' son."

"Sorry, Dad," my son muttered, abashed.

"Apologize to Rosalie, not me, Emmett," I told him firmly. "And don't be offended if she snaps at you again. Just apologize and leave it at that."

"'Kay."

I got up and came around his side of the table, putting my arm around his huge shoulders and squeezing hard. "You're a good kid, Em. I know you aren't being vicious. But now you understand, I hope, that there are some times when it's not okay to tease."

"Yeah."

"You know," I said, releasing him and leaning back against the table, "when Mom was visiting with Billy Black, he talked about you. How polite you act when you visit the Rez . . . and then the thing about you and Matthew. Why didn't you ever tell us what happened?"

Emmett shrugged. "Matthew was an asshole. I'm not hanging around with someone like that," he said offhandedly.

I stared at my boy for a long moment in silence, wondering how it could be four whole years since he'd come to live with us. He'd been so skinny then, clownishly so for a boy already almost as tall as me. Looking at him now, with his shoulders inches broader than mine, and that smile on his face that was neither a leer nor a smirk, but just a gentle, happy smile . . . Maybe I couldn't take all the credit for his sweet personality, but that hadn't stopped my heart from swelling with happiness and pride when Esme recounted Billy's words.

"Do you realize just how proud you make us?" I asked him softly.

Emmett shifted his weight, embarrassed. "Dad . . ." he said.

I reached out again and clapped him on the shoulder. "We're at home, son. You know you don't have to hide from your family." I tried to release my son, but Emmett, for all his earlier reluctance, wouldn't let me; the next thing I knew, my boy was wrapping his muscled arms around me and squeezing so tight I thought my ribs might crack like Bella's. In an instant, I was hugging him back, and we stayed that way for a long, long time.

A lot of life is spent lying awake at night, wondering if the choices you've made are the right ones for everyone involved. Sometimes, usually around three in the morning, when the only sound is your husband or wife breathing steadily next to you, the world just seems too much to bear. But sometimes there are moments when the doubts and fears subside for a brief space of time, and you feel as though perhaps you've made some headway in this jungle after all.

And as if to prove just how masochistic humans can be, years of grief and worry always seem to balance out with just one tender exchange like this one.


	14. All Good Things

**Emmett**

Don't tell anyone, okay? I actually like spending time with my family.

Of course, I can't act like I do, and if anybody began to suspect, I'd have to kill them. So when the guys on the team hear that I can't party on a given weekend because we're all going camping, there's a lot of eye-rolling and murmurs of "Tough break, man." I just shake my head sorrowfully and shrug. Parents. What can you do, right?

So between that and the complaining I do at home, I haven't been outed yet. Sometimes I almost slip, like when I get the idiots who don't realize you can even _go_ camping in the winter, and my instinctive reaction is to ream them a new one. Never mind that I thought Dad'd gone bugshit the first time he suggested it. He's my dad. I can change my mind about him as often as I want.

There are a lot of things I can't tell people, and that's only one of them. And sometimes I want to say something, but I can't think _how_ to say it so it doesn't sound stupid. I'm not smart like my dad is. I guess I just don't know enough words.

Like with Rosalie. I just wanted to talk to her. I don't like how she ignores me all the time, like I'm not good enough for her or something. I know she's probably just uncomfortable because I'm not quiet and serious like her brother, but it still bugs me. I wanted to see if she'd come out of her shell a little. But what do you talk about with someone like Rose? She never tells anyone what she likes. We hear from her when she _dis_likes something, though. Boy, do we hear about it. But . . . maybe she doesn't _always_ speak up when she's angry. It's just that sometimes it gets to be too much.

But all I ended up doing was upsetting her again. It didn't start out that way, but she just got so prickly that it made me push her even harder. I don't know the details, and I guess I'll never know unless she tells me herself, which I kinda doubt. But I could tell from Dad's reaction that she was raped, and that just made me see red. When I think of some filthy pig putting his filthy paws all over Rosie, I want to hunt him down and rip his dick off before I smash his head open like a pumpkin. Nobody who hurts a woman like that should be allowed to live among the human population.

It made me feel horrible about making her so upset, even though I hadn't known and Rose _was_ sort of overreacting. I did apologize to her later, when she and Jasper got home with our ice cream. I met them in the garage and said it in front of him, because I didn't think she'd like if I tried to talk to her alone. She might feel threatened. Besides, I wouldn't have blamed Jasper for being royally pissed at me after I'd made her so upset, so I wanted him to hear it.

"I'm not going to promise to stop teasing you, 'cause, y'know, it wouldn't be fair to my other sisters," I told her, grinning. I felt the grin fade quickly, though, when I thought of what Dad and I had talked about. "But when you tell me to stop, I'll stop. Okay?"

Rosalie hadn't looked at me once when I'd been speaking, and all I got from her was a muttered, "Whatever." That hurt a little, but not as much as it would've if Dad hadn't warned me. I'd probably have felt better if she acted like she forgave me, but like he said, Rose isn't like other people. I guess this is how he feels all the time when any of us rejects him. If that's the case, I think it's kind of a miracle he hasn't snapped yet.

Jasper seemed cool about the whole thing, though. He kinda nodded at me when I reached out to take the grocery bag from him, so I think he's all right with my apology. Which is good, because I'd hate for him to think he needs to protect his sister from me. I know he's a little scared of me sometimes; it's obvious from the way he doesn't like to be too close, or down in the den if it's just me with him. I know I'm sort of intimidating, being just as tall as Dad and built like a truck to boot. I like being intimidating if it means I don't get picked on like I did when I was a kid, but I don't want my family afraid of me.

Still and all, Jasper'd been really pleasant the whole drive up here, even though a lot of people would be cranky at having to get up at three in the morning. He played Travel Scrabble in the backseat with me while Edward snored up front next to Dad. And he'd even laughed a couple times at my asinine jokes while we were setting up camp. It wasn't to the point where I felt comfortable bringing up the subject of Rose, and maybe it was best just to drop it anyway, but at least he wasn't angry.

This camping trip was like seven shades of awesome. I like it anytime, really, and I'm not saying my mom and sisters shouldn't come with us, but having it just us guys was something else. For one thing, it meant I had Dad almost all to myself. Edward's off in his own little world half the time, and Jasper never draws attention to himself, so that meant I could talk to Dad all I wanted. Usually he has Alice hanging all over him. I know she feels nervous when she's not near him, but sometimes you have things to say that you don't _want_ to say in front of her. Then it gets annoying.

I'd been holding in my news for two weeks now, and only because when Bella came, we knew it would be only us men going camping. I was practically bursting at the seams to share it with Dad, and I finally got my chance right after breakfast, when Edward was off showing Jasper how to set up the bear bag.

I fished the letter out of my backpack and crawled back out of the tent, holding it carefully so it wouldn't get wet or crumpled. Dad was setting up the solar panel for the GPS; it was one of those rare days when the sun decided to make an appearance, so he was tickled to death that he got to use his new toy. "Dad, I need you to sign this form for school," I said, coming up next to him and holding out the letter. It was partially unfolded, but not so he could see what it was just yet.

He looked a little surprised, probably wondering why I'd picked now to ask him, but he dutifully put down the panel and took the letter from me, then sat back in one of the camp chairs to read it. I didn't actually need him to sign it right this second — Signing Day wouldn't be for another two weeks, almost. It was just the way I'd decided to start the conversation. And as Dad read, I saw understanding dawn on his kind face as he realized what the whole thing was about.

"They offered me a scholarship," I said to fill in the silence. "A full one. So did UPhoenix, but . . ." I stared down at my hands, kind of embarrassed to admit it. "I don't want to go so far away from home."

"Oh, son," he said softly. "Em, I just . . . my God, I'm just so happy for you." I looked up and saw that his eyes were sparkling with happiness as he stared intently at me. "But are you sure WSU has what you want?" he asked. "I want you as close as possible, but not at the expense of your future."

"Yeah, it's fine," I reassured my dad. "I was thinking maybe I'd major in Phys Ed, so I could teach gym. I like kids. I like helping them. And maybe, you know, I'd learn to figure out which sport a student would be good at and suggest it to them. Like Coach Beck did for me." I shrugged. "I'm not smart like you or talented like Edward, but I still think I can help."

Dad snorted. "Of course you can help! Son, intelligence is measured all different ways. Just because someone can't name every bone in the human body or play the Brandenburg Concertos by heart doesn't mean they aren't smart. You have your own gifts." He suddenly flashed me a huge grin and stood up. "Come here, you big lug," he said, half laughing as he wrapped me in a huge bear hug.

I knew he wasn't just saying random things to make me feel better. He never compares us kids to each other or plays favorites. You _could_ say Alice has him wrapped around her little finger, but she's so sweet that no one minds. And Dad's not so far gone that he ever neglects any of us in her favor, so it's all good. But the look on his face right now was one of such fierce pride and love that there was no mistaking how he felt. He wasn't any less excited than he'd been when Edward told him he was applying to Juilliard. The day he gets accepted, Dad'll probably hit the damn ceiling, but right now, his attention was all for me. And I was grateful for it.

I returned Dad's hug without feeling weird about it at all, like I had last night when he got all mushy on me. This was different. Men's camping trips are like Vegas; nobody makes fun of you afterwards for stuff you let slip. I could have stayed like that all day. But soon enough, Dad let go, his grin still bigger than a clown's as he held the slightly crumpled letter up again. "Where do I sign this thing?" he laughed.

I tried to take it back, but Dad held it away from me. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. "You can sign later, I guess. I just wanted you to see it."

"Indeed." The look he was giving me was addictive. I think I could have lived off it if I had to. But just then, I heard Jasper and Edward crunching through the snow towards us, and the sound made me snap back to reality. There was stuff we had to get done if we were going to be able to relax and enjoy the trip, so I just smiled at Dad again and turned away towards the wanderers.

"Come on, Doofus," I called to Jasper. "I'll show you how to get water out here in the wilderness." I grabbed a new black trash bag and sat down to strap on my snowshoes, and Dad moved away to help Edward get his off.

Jasper sat across from me and eyed the bag warily. "Can't we just eat the snow?" he asked.

"Hell, no!" I cried. "Do you have any idea how much energy it takes to break down snow into water? Next thing, you'll get hypothermia and die, and I'm not carrying your dead ass back to the car," I informed him. "Besides, we'd have to eat a whole drift just to get enough water for the day."

"So . . . are we going to melt it? Couldn't we just use the snow around the campsite?" Jasper looked confused as we started to waddle away from the camp on our shoes.

"Nah, this is something we haven't done before, because it's always been cloudy when we went. Here, I'll show you." I spotted the perfect place for what I had in mind. "Look, you find a place where there's kind of a natural dip in the land," I explained, pointing to the one that was a few yards ahead. "We're going to dig the snow out of there and lay this plastic bag down. The sun is attracted to dark colors — that's why they say never to wear black on a hot day — so it'll aim right for this bag. We pile the snow up at the edges of the pit . . ." I proceeded to demonstrate for Jasper how to pack the dug-out snow into drifts at the top of the little dip. He watched me for a moment, then started to do the same for the other side. "The sun'll melt these drifts, and the water slides right down and collects in the bag."

It only took a couple minutes to get the thing set up, and then we just stood there for a little while, watching the sun reflect off the plastic. Almost immediately, water began to drip down the sides of the bag and pool at the bottom. In about half an hour, there would be enough to fill the biggest collapsible pail. I turned to Jasper and grinned. "See?"

"That's really cool," he said, definite admiration in his voice. "How'd you know to do that?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Dad told me."

"Oh."

I turned around and started to stomp heavily on the snow. "Help me break a path to those trees over there," I said, nodding at the wooded area about a hundred feet away. "That's where we'll set up the washing station. Then we'll make one back to the camp."

"'Kay." Jasper followed behind me like a puppy, stomping down whatever snow my shoes left loose. It was hard work, but once it's done, you can walk between the camps with just your boots on, so it's worth it. Besides, it was so nice out with the sun shining and all. The snow was all glittery, and the air was so clean. Between that and all the exercise, I was feeling about ready to conquer the world.

I stopped walking for a minute, and when Jasper came up next to me, I gave him a playful shove. It startled him, and he looked at me warily, like he was afraid I wanted to fight him, but when he saw me grinning he gave me a little smile and shoved me back. I threw back my head and laughed. My brother was in the mood to roughhouse; could this day get any better?

"Boys!" Dad's sharp voice stopped me in my tracks. "Emmett, you know better than to fool around on snowshoes. Take them off if you're going to wrestle."

I rolled my eyes. "Dad's afraid we'll catch our shoes on each other's and break an ankle," I said to Jasper, plopping down on a nearby rock with a sigh and lifting one of my shoes. "I guess it could happen." Jasper didn't say anything, just stared down at his feet with his arms crossed and an odd expression on his face. It was an attitude I'd begun to recognize as his 'defensive' stance, one he assumed whenever he felt vulnerable. I'm not a straight-A student by any means, but I'm not as stupid as people think. I knew what was wrong in a second.

"Hey," I said softly, reaching out and nudging him from where I sat on the rock. "Dad's not angry with us. Especially not you. I don't think he's mentioned this to you before. He's told me a hundred times, and I still forgot." I shrugged and popped the buckle on my other shoe. "It was just a reminder. Just chill." Jasper didn't look convinced. Actually, he didn't look much of anything. Just like he wanted to be anywhere but here right now.

"You know," I began, twisting my hands uncomfortably, "I . . . I don't claim to know what you and Rose have been through, but . . . I just want to tell you something. My father — my biological father — was always real strict with us. Me and my brothers and sisters." I shook my head. "Man, he used to lay into us for the tiniest things. Seemed like I couldn't go three days without getting my ass whipped. Then when my parents died, my brother and I lived with my uncle for a while, until he said he couldn't afford to take care of us anymore, and it was like living the same life all over again.

"So when I came to live with Mom and Dad, I figured they'd be the same way," I continued. "One time, I guess after I'd been there a week or so, Edward and I were fooling around in the living room and knocked over this candy dish, so there's M&Ms and broken glass everywhere. Esme came running in, and I thought for sure I wouldn't be sitting down for a few days. But she was just worried someone was hurt. And, yeah, she wasn't thrilled about the dish, but she just showed us how to pick up glass with tongs so you don't cut yourself, and how to dab the vacuum hose on the carpet so the little shards don't go flying before you use the big sucker thing."

Jasper had been watching me intently the whole time I spoke. "You didn't get punished?" he asked, quiet and tense. There's this odd tone he gets sometimes when he asks us questions, as though he's afraid to hear the answer but couldn't rest easy without knowing the worst.

"Nope. I mean, she talked at us a couple minutes about how we should have taken it outside once we realized it wasn't just a couple shoves, but she was real nice about it. You know how she is." I thought I even saw Jasper smile a little. "So Edward and I went outside to play ball, but I wasn't really into it 'cause I figured Dad'd come home and _really_ punish us."

Jasper tensed again. "Did he?"

"What do you think?" I asked. I wasn't offended, just curious. "I mean, what do you honestly think? If I hooked you up to a polygraph machine, what would you say?"

There was silence for a long moment as I watched my brother's face, or what I could see of it with his hat down over his eyebrows. Jasper kicked at the snow, the snowshoes still fastened to his feet. "I guess . . . uh, no?"

"Is that your answer, or a question?"

"No."

I wasn't convinced, but then again, it's hard to tell sometimes with Jasper. He's like the Sphinx. "Cool, then."

"Do you miss them?" he asked abruptly. "Your brothers and sisters?" I knew he was thinking of Rose, and what would happen if they ever got separated again.

"Sometimes," I said carefully. Whenever anyone asked me that, I always had a hard time admitting that I really didn't, not very much. "I mean, I think it's different for me because I know where they all are, and Mom and Dad let me call them anytime I want. I get to visit a couple times a year, if their parents let me. My life here is so good, and they all have good homes, too. So . . . I don't really dwell on it." I shrugged. "If we were all grown up, we'd probably hardly ever talk, anyway."

Jasper nodded, but I doubted he really understood. Him being separated from Rose wouldn't be the same thing at all, not after what they'd been through together. I pitied him. _Both_ of them. I knew my parents loved me unconditionally, and I was theirs legally and couldn't lose my home on the court's whim. I didn't know what to say to reassure Jasper, so instead I smashed a snowball together in record time and launched it at him.

Sometimes that's all you can do when there's nothing to say.

* * *

It never fails. You never have to pee right before bed or before leaving the house. It's only when you've finally drifted off to sleep or right when the car gets too far from home to turn back that the urge hits. And when it does, it's not the kind you can shrug off 'til you get where you're going or until morning comes. That piss is going to happen _now_, whether you get up in time or not.

There are rules when we're camping, and one of them is that you never go anywhere alone. The woods can be dangerous. Dad doesn't own a gun, though I've pushed him to get one a hundred times. I don't see how he can be so paranoid about safety and not want a firearm. You don't even need a concealed weapons permit in this state if you're only going to be using it camping, and as long as he keeps it locked up, the state shouldn't have a problem with it. What does he think we're supposed to do if we get attacked by an animal (or, God forbid, a human)? Is Dad going to start on one of his boring-ass medical lectures and hope whoever it is falls asleep long enough for us to escape?

The teal deer of it all is that I can't pee without supervision. And, to be honest, I wouldn't want to. I've seen too many slasher movies to be stumbling around in the pitch-black woods by myself.

I really hated to wake my dad or my brothers just so they could follow me into the trees for a piss, but if Dad caught me sneaking out — and it's very hard to creep out of, or back into, a tent without being heard — there'd be hell to pay and he'd end up waking the others anyway. No way was I waking Edward up and listening to him bitch the whole way there and back. So it would have to be Jasper, who was closest to me on the floor of the tent in any case.

I reached out and gently nudged Jasper's shoulder. If it were me, and someone tried to wake me up, they'd probably need to drag me out of my sleeping bag and across the crusty snow for half the distance before I'd even stir, but Jasper has to be the lightest sleeper I've ever known. I haven't looked at the Guinness Book for years, but I'll bet anything he's in there under 'Lightest Sleeper.' His eyes snapped open as soon as I touched him, and his sleeping bag started to bulge as he fought to get his arms loose.

"Hey, shh," I whispered just loud enough for him to hear me over his thrashing around. "It's just me. Can you come outside with me for a minute? I have to . . . you know."

Jasper stopped moving when he heard my voice, but I'd be willing to bet the poor kid's heart was still racing. I felt kinda bad for waking him up, but hey, I'd get up for him without grumbling . . . if he ever asked. Neither one of us should have to face Edward's wrath. His bag started bulging again, but this time it was just him getting his arm out to unzip.

Jasper and I crawled into the vestibule and put on our coats and boots as fast as we could without making a lot of noise. It was colder out there than in the main part of the tent, because the little heater didn't reach quite that far, but that was nothing compared to how goddamn cold it was _outside_. The air was so dry and biting that it burned my throat and lungs when I tried to breathe. I started to jog up the path we'd broken between the different camp stations, hoping it'd warm me up to get moving.

All it seemed to do was make the burn worse. It was kind of making me giddy. I could hear Jasper gasping behind me as he tried to keep up, and by the time we got to the clump of trees where the 'bathroom' was supposed to be and took care of our business, both of us were wheezing and laughing like a couple of clowns with emphysema. Then it was time to race back to the tent and spend the rest of the night shaking off the cold.

There's something about being with someone rather than on your own, whether it's in the mall or out in the woods. You aren't as nervous, and you don't think to observe much of what's going on. Dunno why that is. I guess you figure if something's up, the other person'll notice it for sure. Plus, it just seems like if there's something after you, like Jason Voorhees or whatever, whoever it is'd be much more likely to stalk a person on their own — preferably a girl with huge boobs — than two or more people together. So Dad had that part right, at least.

The thing is, though, getting too complacent can be a bad thing. Maybe there really aren't psychotic, possessed guys with machetes skulking through the woods . . . but there are bears.

According to Dad, it is _extremely_ rare for a bear to target campers for absolutely no reason. Usually what they're after is food, and they'll only mess with _you_ if you startle them or try to get your food back. Or maybe a mother bear will get aggressive because she sees _everything_ as a threat to her cubs. But bears aren't out as much in the winter. They don't literally sleep the entire time, but the odds of seeing one are slim. And whatever the season, as long as you keep your food up and away and don't cook near the campsite, there's no reason why the little effers ought to even notice you.

We'd cooked and eaten our supper about 300 feet from where we'd set the tent up, and that was pretty close to where we'd hung the bag of food and toothpaste. Bears supposedly love toothpaste and can smell it even in the tube. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Anyway, that was all well and good, because that meant there were no smells at our camp to attract any kind of wildlife.

Except that Jasper and I had to walk by it on the way back from our bathroom break.

When you watch movies, you wonder why the main character gets taken by surprise. Can't they _hear_ the creepy music? Don't they _realize_ the camera is panning? Why would it do that unless something were about to happen? You almost think maybe they deserved to get attacked if they're that stupid. Maybe I did, too. I certainly wasn't thinking about anything but getting back into my warm sleeping bag, next to my brother's, and drifting back to sleep. Vaguely, I thought about breakfast tomorrow and possibly even as far ahead as lunch, but some of the in-between things may have fallen through the cracks, and right that second I wasn't looking at anything but the frozen ground.

When you break a path, all you care about is getting it reasonably flat for walking. You never think that when night comes, it'll freeze solid and make every tiny bump a potential hazard. And in my defense, the bear _was_ standing on its hind legs, sniffing up the tree where our food hung. Maybe if he'd been on all fours, I'd have caught the oddity out of the corner of my eye. But he really just looked like part of the tree.

It was only when I heard Jasper's soft _"Oh, fuck me!"_ from right at my shoulder that I snapped my head up, and even then, I still didn't know what he was swearing about until the thing dropped back to all fours and turned around to stare at us. Oh, fuck me was right. I'd never seen a bear this close before, and it was fucking_ enormous._ It was easily bigger than two of me merged into one, and probably a fuck of a lot heavier. Its head alone was bigger than a good-sized watermelon. My first instinct was to curse not having a gun, but then my heart leaped into my throat as I realized I didn't even have the bear spray on me. Why the hell would I? I was taking a piss at two in the morning; even if it'd occurred to me to bring the damn thing, where was I supposed to put it?

If I'd been on my own, maybe I would've forgotten everything I'd learned from Dad about preventing a bear attack, but the panic that hit me when I realized Jasper might not know what to do made me snap right back into focus. "Don't move," I hissed at him, standing as still as I could as the bear's eyes glittered at me in the moonlight. "Don't . . . just stare at the ground. It might charge us, but that's only for show." _Please, God, tell me that part was true . . ._ "Just stay perfectly still and don't . . . wait, put your arms up like this," I amended hastily. I slowly lifted my arms so they reached straight for the sky. I remembered reading that about bears; I guess they can't tell it's just appendages, and they think you're bigger than you are if you lift your arms. It was only the stupidity of the whole thing that had made it stick in my mind this long.

I chanced a sideways look at my brother, though I tried to keep one eye on the big black thing over by the tree. Jasper hadn't moved; he stood as though paralyzed, staring at the bear with a look of sheer panic on his face. Even in the darkness, I could tell his chest was heaving as though he were having one of his nightmares. He obviously hadn't heard me. Now _I_ was the one panicking as I tried to think how I could keep him from bolting without actually moving myself.

I could barely think straight through my horror, much less form a real sentence. I wanted to tell him not to run, but all I could think to say was that line from _The Hobbit_: _Stand your ground! Rearm!_ So when I tried to yell at him, it was like those dreams where you open your mouth and scream like a banshee, but nothing comes out. "Stand . . . Stand here! Stay — Jasper, _don't move!_"

He didn't hear me, or he was too terrified to understand what I meant. I could see he was going to run before he even started to turn away, and though I knew there wasn't much I could do, there was no way he was going to outrun that beast. I'd heard they can go from zero to thirty in no time at all, and they almost _always_ chase. If Jasper ran, he was as good as dead.

What happened next was so rapid and so horrible that it seemed to be happening in fast-forward, not slow motion like you sometimes hear things described. The bear took one step towards us, and Jasper let out a sound that was almost a wail before bolting down the path towards the camp. The bear's head kind of went back for a second, and then it made a noise like a dog barking and shot towards our path, its legs scissoring ridiculously as it lumbered across the snow.

Logic told me that there was no way _either_ of us could make it back to camp and get the spray before that thing caught up with us, but then, it wasn't going to help anyone if I just stood there and watched them run away from me. So a split second after I saw the bear start to move, I was sprinting after my brother towards the tent.

If we'd gone a little further from the path to hang the food — if the bear had had to blunder through the unbroken snow for just a little longer — then maybe Jasper and I would have made it back, or at least Dad would've heard us in time to grab the can of spray. Whether that would have deterred the bear at that point is pure speculation; some theories say it just makes them mad. All I know is what happened when it caught up to me and swiped at my back with one of its huge, heavy paws.

I felt the impact, but no real pain. It wasn't nearly as bad as getting tackled in football. I wondered why the claws weren't out, but then I realized my heavy coat had probably stopped them from reaching my skin. That's all I had _time_ to think before the thing's paw raked the rest of the way down my back . . . and reached my butt and legs, which only had the long johns to protect them.

It happened so quickly that the bear was probably back on the ground before the pain even hit me, but when it did, I couldn't have taken another step if my life depended on it. Even as I panicked at the thought of being on the ground, the instinct to grab the hurting place and make it stop somehow took over, and I collapsed onto the frozen snow.

Jasper was yelling something up ahead, but _my_ head was spinning too fast to hear what it was. I was panting like an animal, panting and moaning at the same time as I tried to think through the haze of pain. My leg and the left side of my ass felt like live coals were being pressed into them, and I just wanted to roll over and maybe press it up against the snow. But I could hear the bear huffing and puffing right over me, and all I could think to do was squeeze my eyes shut and play dead.

It didn't work, or at least, the thing obviously wanted to make sure before it gave me up as a kill. I whimpered when it pressed its snout into the wound on my leg, then grunted and sniffed its way up my side . . . and then I felt a crushing weight on my shoulder as the bastard started to _climb_ on me.

I knew I was going to die. People didn't just walk away from bear attacks. I screamed for my dad as I felt the thing pushing down on my back. This wasn't like anything that had happened to me on the field; this fucking thing weighed as much as a car, and my face was pressing so hard into the ice that I thought my nose might just explode. _And_ the pressure on my chest was making it impossible to breathe.

I screamed again when I felt its teeth tear into my bicep, and this time I didn't stop because _it_ didn't stop. The fucker was _chewing_ on me, gnawing at my arm like a dog with a bone, and its jaws were like a vise being clamped tighter and tighter on my arm. I waited to hear the sound of it snapping in two. I waited for my heart to burst from lack of oxygen. I felt tears leaking out of my eyes and running cold down my nose before plopping onto the snow I was being systematically crushed into. I knew it was the end, and while I wanted it to come quickly so the pain would stop, I wished I could have just a minute to see my dad one more time. My heart wrenched when I realized there'd be no chance at all to see my mom, not ever again.

I tried to remember what she looked like the last time we talked, before this whole fateful trip ever got started, but all I could picture was the way she looked in the wedding photo of her and Dad on the mantel.

And their glowing, happy faces were the last thing I saw.


	15. The First Shoe

**Jasper**

There was no way they were going to hear me and get out of the tent in time to help. I didn't even know which direction to run; it was the same old panic all over again. She was hurting Rosie, and there was nothing I could do. If I tried to stop her, she'd only get angrier and hurt my sister worse. If I left to get help, she could kill her. My head felt ready to explode. All I wanted to do was lie down in the snow and go to sleep.

"Carlisle!" I yelled it as loud as I could, but my throat was so tight from the cold that it was like trying to scream with laryngitis. I tried again, screeching so loud that I felt something in my throat tear. _"CARLISLE!"_ My boots were pounding against the snow that was almost as hard as ice by now. I was almost at the camp, but even if I got there, I knew it would take too long to get Carlisle up and . . . well, and what? What were we supposed to do? Stupid pacifist _fuckwad_ didn't even have a _gun_. We had that bear spray, but I had no idea where it was, and Emmett needed help _now,_ not after we'd torn the camp apart looking for the goddamn thing. I was running as fast as I could, faster than I think I ever did before, but for what, exactly?

I was about a stone's throw from the campfire when Emmett screamed for the first time. You know how people talk about 'screaming bloody murder,' or a 'bloodcurdling scream'? I was fucking freezing by that time, but I swear my blood ran cold. Terrified as he must have been, Emmett screamed like a woman. I hadn't heard such a sickening sound since the night Royce went after Rosie.

I saw when the little lantern snapped on inside the tent, and the bulging, formless shadows springing up on its sides like a movie being played on an old projector screen. I knew it was too late for them to help Emmett, and it would be too late by the time I found the bear spray. If I didn't do something else — _now,_ God damn it — that bear was going to rip him to pieces right in front of us.

Images flashed across the movie screen of my brain so fast I could barely focus on one before moving on to the next. I had to find something to hit that fucker with. A tent pole? Too light and flimsy. A camp chair, folded up? That _could_ work . . . but then what? The bear would just get mad and come after the rest of us. Somehow I had to hurt it badly enough that all it wanted to do was run away.

My eyes fell on the remains of our campfire, and then I had my answer.

We didn't really need a campfire. We'd cooked away from the camp over a small butane stove, and used it to melt our water, too. But Carlisle had to have a _real_ fire over near the tent, though not too close in case the sparks caught the fabric and the whole thing went up in flames. We'd all grumbled at first, 'cause it'd been a pain in the ass to find enough _dry_ wood for kindling, but once he'd gotten it going with a tiny bit of starter liquid, it really was beautiful. Sitting around it with my foster dad and brothers, toasting marshmallows for no other reason than that's what you're supposed to do while camping, for a little while I just felt so _connected_ with them. It was just the four of us and our campfire against the darkness, and it was nice. Who the fuck wants to sit around a butane stove?

Then later, when I'd been lying in my sleeping bag, trying to fall asleep, I'd loved how the faint glow from outside kind of seeped inside the tent, just enough so it wasn't all pitch black. It felt like we were explorers, or pioneers making our way across the prairie with no one to rely on but ourselves. I could see the others, shapeless lumps in their mummy bags, and it made me feel less alone. Emmett and I were in the front 'room' while Carlisle and Edward had the back. It was really nice. Really quiet. And I knew that animals were afraid of fire, so if I'd had any fears of an animal attack — which I really didn't, this being the dead of winter and all — having a fire outside our tent made me feel a little better.

I didn't stop to think, and that's probably why we aren't all dead. If I had been ten seconds later, even to grab a plastic bag to wrap around my hand or something, that thing could've put its full weight on Emmett and crushed his body flat like a junked car. Sometimes panic totally fucks you up, but it kept me going, and it made me pick up one of the burning logs and _hold onto it_, even when halfway back to Emmett it burned the rest of the way through my glove and started on the tender skin of my fingers. When the bitch turned on me and bared her teeth, her whole mouth pink with my foster brother's blood, the pain was so blinding that suddenly I was eight years old again, watching Mama pour the oil from the frying pan on my legs and screaming for her to let me go, untie my legs, _please,_ Mama, Jasper's sorry . . . I hadn't been able to fight back then, but today my arms and legs were free as the wind, and with both hands, I raised the log up like a baseball bat and swung it with all my might into that bitch's ugly mouth.

It was my old nightmare come to life. No matter how hard I'd swung, it wasn't hard enough, and the weapon wasn't _heavy_ enough. I felt like I was hacking at a giant sequoia with a hatchet. The bitch was bellowing like a stuck pig, but she wasn't moving. All I could do was just keep hitting her, smashing her big snarly face with the end of the branch and begging God to make at least _one_ of them count.

Finally, I got her in one eye, and that was the last straw; she gave one last mighty bellow and then took off. I watched as she lumbered off towards the trees, kind of grunting and howling at the same time. She almost looked funny, except nothing was funny here. Nothing might be funny ever again. Emmett wasn't screaming any more, and I was too afraid of what I might see to turn and look at him. The stick fell to the ground next to my boots and fizzled out in the snow, forgotten.

I stripped off my glove, moaning as I felt pieces of skin pulling away along with it. My palm was all red and raw like the inside of a steak, and the edges of the burnt area were deathly white. The sight was sickening and made me want to hurl, but I couldn't stop looking at it. I had to know what I was dealing with, and once I saw my hand and that it wasn't black or gone completely, I finally got up the nerve to look at Emmett, too.

I heard Carlisle and Edward coming up behind me, and as fucked up as my mind was, I still knew to step back so Carlisle could help Emmett. My vision was kind of hazy from the pain, but I could see that the snow around his face had pink in it, and around his arm . . . I looked away, sure I was going to throw up. He wasn't screaming anymore, or even moving. I didn't want to know if he was dead. I hoped Carlisle wouldn't tell me.

Carlisle had seen the bear, and seen me fighting her off. And now that he was right here, he could see what I saw: his son lying perfectly still, the sleeve of his parka hanging in bloody shreds around an arm that resembled raw meat. I braced myself for him to fall apart, and at first I thought that's exactly what he was going to do as he fell to his knees on the frozen ground next to Emmett. "God, Emmett, oh, _God,_ please no . . . please, not my boy . . ." he moaned, fumbling with the collar of the parka as he felt frantically for a pulse.

Edward skidded to a halt next to me, panting like a dog on a hot summer day. I wasn't looking at him, but I could feel his body go rigid and his breathing still the moment he saw his brother and his father and fully understood the horror of the situation. Edward and I never had much to say to each other at the best of times, but now he grabbed my arm as though to anchor himself with me. And what he didn't understand was that I had been about to do the same to him, and only stopped because then I knew he couldn't handle it, and that I was going to have to pull myself together so I could help both of us.

Carlisle must have found a pulse, because the next thing I knew, he was ripping Emmett's torn sleeve even more, trying to get it off. "Edward, get one sleeping bag from the tent," he ordered, speaking over his shoulder at us and never slowing his work. "Just one sleeping bag, and come straight back as quickly as you can. Go!" Edward hesitated for only a split second, and then he was gone and I was listening to his boots crunching the snow on his way back to the tent. Even though he had been the one clinging to me and not the other way around, now that he was gone, I felt so alone. Carlisle was a doctor and could help Emmett. Edward had a simple enough task: get a sleeping bag and hurry back. What would he ask from me? I wanted something to do so I wouldn't feel so helpless, but I also wanted nothing so I wouldn't have the chance to fuck it up.

"Jasper." All the while, he'd been speaking slowly, and his voice was too low. Too soothing. How could he be so calm when Emmett could be dying? "Come here," he instructed, and I obeyed, sinking to my knees in the snow next to him. "Are you hurt?" I wanted to say no, knowing any attention he gave me meant less for Emmett, who needed it. But my hand was hurting so badly that my whole arm had started to throb, and I just couldn't help it. I held it up for him to see.

Carlisle sucked in his breath and twisted around so he faced me fully. I winced when he grabbed my wrist, and I had to bite back a groan as his fingers brushed the edges of the burnt place. Carlisle swore softly, and then I counted five seconds where there was no sound at all except our breathing. I knew he was debating how to deal with two injured boys at once, and I wished I could help him, but right then my mind was too numb to think about something that complicated.

"Son." I looked up, Carlisle's kind face swimming in front of mine in the moonlight. "Son, I need you to stay with me," he said. "Later there'll be time to rest, but now you need to stop thinking and just do what I ask you to. If any of us fall apart, we'll lose him. Do you understand?" I nodded mutely. My head was swimming with too many thoughts, and despite Carlisle's warning, I couldn't make them stop. How were we going to get out of here? It took us hours to hike this far. And carry Emmett? He was huge, like a bear himself. Suddenly his comment from the afternoon seemed eerily prophetic. _I'm not carrying your dead ass back to the car . . ._

"Will he be all right?" I whispered, trying not to think about my hand. Later, like Carlisle said. Nothing I could do right now.

"He will if we hurry. Now listen to me, son. You can carry the stove in your arms, if you do it carefully, and not injure your hand. I need you to get it and bring it to the tent. If you can start boiling water, please do that, but if not, get my bag ready. Understand?"

I didn't answer; I just ran for the cooking station, grabbed the pudgy little stove, then took off towards the tent. I met Edward on his way back, his arms wrapped around two sleeping bags, not one, and panic written all over his face. I hurried even faster, wanting to get everything ready for them. I'd already figured out what the sleeping bag was for; Carlisle was going to use it to drag Emmett back to the tent across the snow, and then treat him there.

The distance to the tent didn't seem quite so long this time. I wasn't trying to outrun a bear, or to race against the burning embers eating away at my waterproof glove, and without those time bombs ready to go off, the way seemed ridiculously short. I dove inside the tent and crawled as fast as I could towards the bags, considering I could only put my weight on one of my hands and was keeping the other curled close to my chest. I grabbed Carlisle's and started to drag it back out with me, then thought better of it and grabbed mine, too. My head was beginning to clear, either because I had a task to focus on or because of my sudden burst of activity, and little ideas were starting to form even without Carlisle there to tell me what to do.

By the time the three came back, Emmett still unconscious on the sleeping bags that Carlisle had zipped together to form one double-size bag so Emmett could have some covering, I had lit the little stove and also set one pan of water right up against the campfire. It was clumsy, and would probably hurt the pan, but who gave a fuck at this point? We could replace the pan. I'd also yanked up the two adjustable tent poles; they could expand up to eight feet, though obviously getting thinner the whole while, and I had an idea how we could carry Emmett with them.

Carlisle tore open one of the front pockets to his pack and tossed Edward his cell. "Edward, see if you can get a signal and dial 911," he instructed him, then yanked one of the side zippers open and pulled out his first aid kit. While he worked, I brought him the smaller pan of water, which was just starting to bubble, then dropped to my knees at the head of the sleeping bag.

"Jasper?" he said. I don't know what he would have asked me to do, but I was already at work, piercing holes in the top of Emmett's sleeping bag and worrying the edges so they were wide enough to fit the tent poles. I had punched one by the time he spoke, and was working towards another. "What are you doing?" Carlisle snapped, sounding impatient with me for the first time tonight. "We need to keep him warm!"

I didn't answer, knowing it would take too long to explain, but he made me so nervous that my hands fumbled with the knife and almost dropped it several times. Carlisle moved, and I thought he was going to come at me, so I just whispered, "Please, just a minute," and kept on. Carlisle gave a frustrated sigh and went back to tending Emmett's injuries. I didn't pay attention to what he did; I needed all my focus just to do this one-handed. When I was done with the top, I moved down to the bottom and did the same, cutting six small holes as far away from the edges as I could.

"Dad, it's not working." Edward sounded like a little kid who was close to tears, and for once I didn't blame him or feel disdain for his weakness. Carlisle swore again.

"Keep trying, son. We have to keep trying, the whole way back to the car if we have to," he said. "They're not our last hope, but we still need to try."

Finished, I clicked the knife shut and shoved it in my pocket, then picked up one of the poles and began carefully weaving it in and out of the holes I'd created. By the time I'd gotten it all tight and moved back to the top with the other pole, Carlisle had caught on to my plan. "Brilliant, Jasper," he said, giving me an admiring glance as he wound gauze around Emmett's arm. "Absolutely brilliant. I'm sorry I was short with you."

I couldn't help it — I snorted. The man was working on keeping his son alive in the middle of the wilderness while his other son couldn't even get a fucking cell phone signal, and he was apologizing for snapping at me when I'd ignored him and done my own thing. There was something seriously wrong with him.

Emmett's breathing was very faint and very shallow. I could only see that he _was _breathing when I looked _very_ closely. His arm was wrapped up in what had to be five rolls of gauze, which had been loosely secured with an Ace bandage. Now, as I finished with the bottom pole, Carlisle was yanking some clothes out of his backpack and piling them up next to the sleeping bag. "Jasper, help me slide him over," he said, "and we'll put these down and slide him back. Otherwise he'll freeze."

So while Edward fiddled with the stupid phone and watched the rest of the water on the camp stove, I helped Carlisle carefully move Emmett over, lay down some shirts and pants for insulation, then somehow slide him back on top without bunching them all up. We had to pull some of them through the other side, but when that was done, we piled a few more on top of him and zipped up the sleeping bag, and Emmett was ready to go. "Let me see that hand, Jasper," Carlisle ordered, extending his own towards me.

I shook my head. "Later. What about Emmett?" I said.

"I'm just going to wash it, spray it with silver sulfadiazine for the pain and so it won't infect, and wrap it in gauze," he explained hurriedly. "It'll take just a few minutes. Then Edward and I are going to carry Emmett while you carry my backpack. It hasn't snowed, and the trail should be fresh. Which is a blessing, because if we can't even get a cell signal, that goddamn GPS isn't going to be worth the space it takes up in my bag."

I tried to keep quiet while Carlisle washed my hand and splashed it with antiseptic, but the sting was almost as bad as the burning. Carlisle saw my face, and his own twisted with sympathy for me. "It's okay, son," he murmured. "Yell if you have to. I know it's hard."

I did yell, but only once, and I muffled it in my sleeve. The sulfosusca-whatever _did_ help with the pain a little, and once my hand was wrapped up in gauze and covered with one of Carlisle's extra gloves, I felt a lot better. I even said that I should be the one to help carry Emmett while Edward shouldered the backpack, because I was stronger.

Carlisle shook his head. "Not by yourself. Not with that hand," he said firmly. "But we could try both of you with a backpack and holding one end of the pole. If it gets to be too much and one person has to take over, we can dump the other bag."

I knew then that we'd be leaving all the other stuff behind. Why not? What the fuck would we need it for? We had already wasted too much time. It had taken us a little over three hours to find this camping spot in the first place, although a lot of that was because of the snow being unbroken and us having to stop and look around once in a while. Carlisle's always about the journey being more important than the destination, and I can see his point sometimes. It's really pretty out here, and if you just walk with your head down, you miss all that.

But even carrying Emmett instead of our camping gear and only stopping when we had to adjust our grip or for Carlisle to check on Emmett, it still took four hours to get back to the car. The sky had lightened considerably by then, and it was a good thing Carlisle was up front, because if he'd had to stare at Emmett's slack, dead-white face the whole time, I think he'd have fallen apart on us. Maybe not; the guy's a doctor, after all, and he's about the strongest man I've ever known when it comes to keeping calm. But this was his own son, and I just wouldn't have been surprised.

As we walked, I was occupied with keeping a good grip on my end of the 'stretcher' without putting too much pressure on my right hand, but after a while we three kind of fell into our own rhythm, keeping pace with each other and all lapsing into our separate reveries. Carlisle might have been thinking about how he was going to treat Emmett when we finally got to the hospital, although he regularly pulled out the cell and tried, once again, to raise Houston. Every time, I held my breath, waiting for him to give a shout and stop short, putting the phone to his ear and bending down to lay his burden on the snow. But each time, I was disappointed, and the ritual started to get old and annoying, like that looping signal in _Lost_ that kept playing for seven years with no one to hear it but God, who didn't give a fuck in any case.

I stared at Carlisle's back and thought about how tenderly he'd treated my hand. He baffled me sometimes. I used to think he was gay. Not from the first moment I met him or anything, although Rosalie said anyone who looked that good had to be either gay or married. Said it right out loud as he and Esme walked into the Social Services office. I never knew if they heard, since our caseworker stood up and greeted them right then, and anyway the door was half-shut when she said it . . . but I could have ripped her hair out anyway. Not that I didn't agree with her; it's just that if Carlisle thinks _I _have issues with self-control, Rose needs someone to tape her goddamn mouth shut at times. Anyway, Carlisle was obviously married, so . . . that should have been that.

I was sure they'd walk right back out, or at least look _pissed_ when they came in the little back office we were sitting in, but I guess Rose's voice didn't carry like I thought it did. They both smiled at us. I didn't look them in the eyes — my mother sure taught me better than _that_, thank you — but I could pretty much sense that they weren't angry with us. Sometimes my radar works better than others, and people obviously put on a show when they're being observed, but I didn't sense any hostility right then, or in the days that followed.

I could have changed my thinking slightly and said that a normal guy could never be that nice. He doesn't act like a pansy or anything, but he's _weird_. Like, I've never seen a man give out so many hugs in all my life. It bothered me at first. We're men, for crying out loud. Hugging and touching is for women. But this guy's different. I gave up thinking he was queer a long time ago. Maybe it's the way he acts when the game is on, or that blank look on his face when Esme gets overexcited and starts talking about color schemes and Queen Anne chairs and whatnot. He doesn't even pretend to get it. The touching, now, that made me uncomfortable before. I figured he was either queer or one of those hippie types that are all about peace, love, and harmony. Which theory went right out the window when Emmett got caught with the grass.

Jesus, for a dude who's so slack about everything else, he sure threw one colossal shitfit over that little escapade. Then again, it's not like Emmett is some retired old pensioner who lives out in the woods with no car — Carlisle probably doesn't care about the spliff so much as the possible consequences. I mean, if his coach found out, or if he got laced and then got caught driving, there'd go his future, right? Especially if it happened now that he's a legal adult. That kind of shit stays on your record forever, and they'd give a football scholarship to bin Laden before they gave one to Emmett at that point.

Anyway, the day we were at the market and he acted so cool about the condoms — like an older brother, maybe, only not tormenting me over the whole thing the way one of them might — well, afterward, in the car, when he started rubbing my back, I freaked out a bit. But I'd seen him do that to Edward and Emmett when they're sitting with him on the couch, and I know for sure Emmett's not gay, so I relaxed. And then I realized — scared the bejesus out of me when I did, too — that I _wasn't_ scared. For the first time since I could remember, I wasn't afraid I was going to get a big clump of hair yanked out or my shoulder wrenched from its socket, or that Carlisle would pull the car over and start hammering on me. I just worried about the touching. And only for a minute, at that. It was nice, actually. Like he . . . loved me.

I still can't seem to completely relax around him, because sometimes they'll do that — be nice to you until they build up some trust, that is. Or just because they're going through a nice time themselves. Then, just when you least expect it, you get yanked out of bed by your ankle one night and kicked the minute you hit the floor in a heap, or smashed in the face as you walk in the door. No way am I about to get all complacent.

But seriously, I was starting to think Carlisle was different. Esme, too. Most homes I've been in, even the real kids can't stand the parents. Now, maybe it's just because Emmett and Edward have been there so long — not their whole lives, though, so as to get too uppity about it — but it's like they worship those two. They call them 'Mom' and 'Dad' just like real kids do, and Edward asked Carlisle for money for his Juilliard application like it was nothing. Like he knew Carlisle would give it to him with no strings attached.

And they don't fight, these people. I don't understand it. They can go for days, or weeks, without even having a little spat. And no one ever gets physical, not even Emmett. Hell, even Carlisle's rage over the pot wasn't a 'fight,' not like the ones I've seen. I only called it a shitfit because I've never seen him even raise his voice before. It made me scared, and I went in Rose's room in case things turned bad and he went after her next, but nothing happened. And after it was over — it didn't last long — I almost wanted to laugh. He came in to say goodnight to me and Emmett later just like nothing had happened.

I just don't understand how a man can get by without fighting with his kids. Alice is different; no one can deny her anything, so what's there to fight about? Edward's always in some kind of funk about something, but he just goes all soft around Esme. They never fight, not seriously. None of them fight with the folks, yet they don't seem afraid or anything, just . . . calm. It's unnatural, and I don't do so well with unnatural things. I'd rather have chaos, which I'm used to, than calm, which I'm definitely not. I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop. For kids like Rose and me, too old for adoption and too young to fight back against the system, there's always another shoe.

* * *

It was Edward who first spotted the weird rock that had marked the beginning of our ill-fated hike yesterday morning, and when he shouted, "There it is! The football rock!" and I looked up and saw it, I suddenly felt so weak and dizzy that I didn't know how I was going to walk the last hundred yards or so. The car had been our goal, the one I'd been focusing with all my might on for the last few hours. I knew the little turnout where we'd parked was just beyond that rock; we'd set our stuff on it while we strapped on our snowshoes. I thought I could even see the car itself, a lighter green peeking through the pines that separated us from the road, yet all I wanted to do was collapse right here and fall asleep.

But of course I didn't. Like Carlisle, I pushed my fatigue and my mental exhaustion to that back part of my mind where it couldn't interfere. I'd done that plenty of times in my life, like whenever I'd promise Rose that I'd stay awake and keep watch while she slept at night. It must be what keeps doctors awake for twelve-hour surgeries at the end of twenty-hour shifts, and what had kept all of us, even Edward, from giving up on each other and letting our end of the burden drop onto the powdery snow.

I've heard of people kissing the ground when they get off a plane, or even out of a car after a really harrowing ride. I was ready to kiss the Prius, and probably would have if I hadn't needed to help Carlisle get Emmett into the backseat, pulling myself in with my bad hand while yanking at my end of the sleeping bag with the other until he lay across the seat, then opening the far door and hopping out that side. "Edward, hold your brother as still as you can. Jasper, up front." The old Carlisle, the one who always stopped to explain why he was asking you to do something and listened when you asked questions, was gone. This new one gave his orders brusquely and moved so fast that it made my head spin to try and keep up.

"Can I drive?" I asked Carlisle, cringing and hoping he wouldn't yell at me. "You could be with Emmett then."

"No, son," he said. Even as fried as he had to be, he still spoke gently to me, but I knew he wasn't leaving room for arguing. "Not with your hand like that. Just keep trying the phone, please." He passed me the little silver phone before slamming Edward's door shut and jogging around the car to the driver's side. And I could've argued that my hand only really hurt when I didn't have anything else to do but think about it, but I didn't. I just felt the knife twist deeper inside my stomach. I'd fucked up for real this time. I got Emmett hurt, and then I got _myself_ hurt so I was fucking useless now. If it weren't for my hand, I could drive and Edward could try the phone while Carlisle kept working on Emmett. Now Emmett would be alone, and it was my fault.

I opened my door and hopped in, not even bothering with my seatbelt before flipping open the phone and dialing the numbers that had already developed their own muscle memory in my hand. I watched the hourglass on the lighted screen flip over every five seconds, marking our precious time that was slipping away like the little pixels of sand. I wished I could drive so at least I'd feel like I was in control. Waiting for the phone to catch a signal was like Chinese water torture, with every failure to connect another maddening drip against my head.

I started to say the rosary, using the phone's failures in place of beads to mark my progress. The rote prayers were soothing; I knew them just well enough to recite from memory, but not to the point where I didn't have to focus almost exclusively on the words. I could dial and pray at the same time, and that was pretty much the limit. It was a way to keep my mind occupied as the car sped down the road towards civilization, and that was about the only benefit I could see. I highly doubted that God, who'd never listened to me before, would pick now to start.

But if He _was_ bent on ignoring me, I was going to make it as hard on Him as I possibly could.


	16. Waiting

**Edward**

By the time the stupid phone ever picked up a signal, we were so close to town anyway that all Dad could really do was tell the hospital to expect us. That was worth something, though, because all we had to do was pull up to the Emergency Room doors, and the EMTs were waiting to whisk Emmett off. Maybe we weren't literally counting down his last breaths or anything, but I'd spent almost the last six hours in a state of constant panic. So when I stood by the car and watched the paramedics retreating with my brothers, I felt like I'd been carrying a one-ton weight that had suddenly been taken off me. The resulting feeling of relief and weightlessness made me so dizzy that I almost keeled over right there on the asphalt.

Dad hadn't wanted me left alone, but I told him to give me the phone and I'd call Mom as soon as I'd parked the car. Dad hadn't called from the road, and I think it might have been that he just couldn't handle that conversation, drive, and think about what he had to do for Emmett all at the same time.

He kind of argued with me for a minute, because I know he doesn't like to have anyone do something for him that he's scared to do himself, but this time it was me who cut him off and said to worry about Emmett. Usually it's Dad who tells us kids to let him handle something, if he feels we're taking on too many adult problems that we're not responsible for handling.

I had that to hold onto, at least. Because I knew he had to be pissed with me. I'd been completely useless ever since Jasper's screams woke us up right after two o'clock. I might as well have been unconscious like Emmett for all the good I'd done anyone. Even with his injured hand, Jasper had managed to carry the little butane stove, heat some water, fix up our makeshift stretcher with tent poles, and help Dad bundle up Emmett and get him settled into the stretcher. I just stood there like a dweeb, playing with the phone. Fiddling away while Rome burned down around us.

Dad acquiesced quickly, wanting to get to Emmett. He left the keys in the ignition and gave me a quick hug, and then he was gone, the flaps of his unzipped parka blowing backwards like a big cape as he disappeared down the hallway.

I parked the car away from the main parking area, because I still only had a learner's permit and parking was never my strong point, so I wisely kept away from any cars I might accidentally smash into while trying. I started to get back out, but then when I thought of calling my mother from the waiting room that might or might not have people in it, I changed my mind and slammed the door shut again.

The car was so quiet now. Not that anyone had been making noise while we drove; Dad was focused on the road, Jasper was focused on the phone, and Emmett never made so much as a peep. He scared me, actually, with how still he kept as I petted his head and tried not to think about what was under the torn sleeve of his parka.

But our fear had been like a physical presence in the car, and a rather noisy one at that. And even though I could still sense the vibration of it, it was very faint, like the remnants of a headache banished with ibuprofen. I picked up the phone, dreading having to tell my mother what had happened, but knowing I had no choice. She'd want to be here as soon as possible. So even though my hands shook, I went into my dad's contacts list and dialed home.

Mom recognized Dad's cell number, and her voice wasn't exactly the 'mom' voice I was used to. "Well, hello, Doctor," she purred into the phone. I cringed. "Are you in? Town, that is?"

Oh, gag me. "Mom, it's Edward."

The sultry tone vanished. "Oh, sorry, honey," she said apologetically. "Are you all on your way home?" She knew the phones rarely worked until we were right outside town. "I'm making a huge roast for dinner."

"Um . . ." Christ. When they made us role play in health class and say no to drugs, why couldn't we have had one class to learn how to break bad news? "Well, Mom, there was an . . . accident?" I didn't know what to call it, really. "Emmett got hurt, and Jasper, too — well, he just burned his hand, but it looked pretty bad — and we had to carry him back — Emmett, that is — because he passed out, but he was breathing and we tried to keep him as warm as we could, so now we're just — "

"Edward." Mom cut off my insane ramblings with that one word. She didn't actually sound upset right then, though with Mom you never knew. She and Dad were both good at shoving panic into some remote corner of their minds whenever there was a crisis to tend to. "You're at the hospital now? All four of you?"

"Yeah."

"Your father's taking care of you?"

"Yes. Well, just Em and Jasper, Mom. I wasn't hurt."

"Thank God for that. I'll be there in ten minutes." And that was it. I heard a click as she hung up, and then the call dropped. I clicked the phone shut, feeling suddenly very alone.

* * *

Mom wasn't exaggerating. I took my time trudging across the parking lot with its light dusting of snow that hadn't yet been disturbed by more than a couple sets of tires, and I'd barely settled myself into one of the hard plastic waiting room chairs when I saw Mom's car pulling into a parking space right outside the big glass doors. I went back outside to wait for her.

Rose got out of the passenger side, and I inwardly rolled my eyes at the idea of having to wait with her. She probably insisted on coming so she could make sure her brother was all right, and I respected that. But my nerves were shot anyway, and Rose tended to get on them pretty badly. So after Mom had checked me over and made sure I was all in one piece, then taken off down the hall to find her husband and son, I chose a seat as far away from Rose as I could without appearing to do it on purpose.

For a while, I entertained myself with thoughts about how I was going to start using our gym every day once we all got home. I'd found out this morning just how dangerous being out of shape could be, when I found myself struggling just to carry _half_ of one end of Emmett's stretcher. It made me furious to feel that dependent on everyone else.

Part of me felt guilty for thinking so much about myself when I should have been thinking about my brother, or how I could help my dad and Jasper get him back to the car. But once we'd been walking for a little while, we kind of just fell into a rhythm. There really wasn't anything to talk about, and none of us spoke unless we had to ask for a quick break. It made me kind of mad that Jasper never asked for one, even though the one arm he was holding the tent pole with had to have been aching. I tried to hold out, but I don't play sports like him and Emmett or work out like Dad does, so I'm kind of a weakling.

A lot of people with a home gym have it in the basement, but between the den, Alice's little studio, the garage, and the huge room for all the cans and jars of food we need, there just wasn't enough space. Our gym is upstairs across from Dad's study and next to my music room. Not an ideal setup, since Emmett likes to blast the music until the floor shakes, and while Mom made sure my room was soundproof, she didn't think to do the gym. Actually, it's not really safe to soundproof a gym, anyway. If one of us got hurt in there, no one could hear it. We're not supposed to use the room unless someone else is home that can check on us every so often, but sometimes on the weekends there's no avoiding it.

Maybe half an hour had passed, with me fantasizing about huge muscles that could lift cars up off the ground, before I heard feet shuffling and looked up to see Jasper heading my way. He looked absolutely wasted. His hand was wrapped much more securely now; it looked like he had on a huge white mitten. I was sure that I didn't exactly look fresh-faced myself, but I figured they had to have given Jasper something pretty potent for the pain, because he looked ready to fall asleep standing up.

"Hey," I said, but Jasper's gaze flicked past me to his sister, who'd stood up and hurried to fuss over his hand.

"Jazz," she breathed, turning the big mitt gently back and forth. I saw Jasper wince, but he didn't say a word. Rose looked up at him, and I heard her ask under her breath, "How did it happen?"

I clicked my tongue angrily. "Dad was taking dirty pictures of us in the tent, and when Jasper fought him, he stuck his hand in the campfire. Honestly, what do you _think_ happened?" _Crazy bitch._

"Why don't you just shut your goddamn mouth?" Rosalie snarled at me over her shoulder. "No one asked you a thing."

"Rose." Jasper sounded like he had about two ounces of strength left. "Please. Esme wants you to drive us home so we can have lunch and get some sleep. I'm so tired, Rose." He opened his good hand and showed her the car keys I'd given to Mom when she came in. "Okay?"

Rosalie glared at me a moment longer, then grabbed the keys from Jasper and stormed towards the doors. I rolled my eyes and heaved myself off the chair, wincing as I realized my ass was numb from sitting there so long. "Do they know how Emmett's doing?" I asked my brother as we followed Rose out to the parking lot. Obviously he'd talked to Mom, and I wanted to know what he knew.

"No. Esme watched your dad through the window awhile, and he nodded at her, but no one's told her anything," he replied woodenly. "One of the nurses did my hand for me, because Dr. Snow's helping your dad right now."

I wished Mom had come out to talk to us, because I was feeling very alone without either of my parents to talk to. I just wanted a little reassurance that my brother was going to be all right. But I was the least of their problems right now, so I just climbed into the backseat and let Rose drive us home. At least Mom and Dad could stop worrying about five of their kids for a little while.

Alice and Bella had made us lunch, and even though I really didn't want it, Alice insisted. "Mom says you have to eat it, and then to go lie down, but only for a few hours. Otherwise you'll just be up all night and you'll never get back to normal," she lectured Jasper and me, placing huge bowls of steaming _pasta e fagioli_ in front of us and piling two cheese sandwiches apiece next to them. And since no one ever won an argument with Alice, Jasper and I dug in without complaint. And afterwards, she cleaned up while he and I trudged upstairs to our rooms.

I don't even remember changing or getting into bed. I think I was already asleep before I even got in the room.

* * *

"Edward?"

I grunted and rolled over, pressing my face into the pillow. "Go away," I muttered.

There was a pause, and then a hand was gently shaking my shoulder. "Alice says you need to get up."

So it was Bella. If it were Rosalie, she probably would have already yanked me out of the bed by my ankle, without even warning me first.

"I just went to sleep ten minutes ago. Bite me." I immediately regretted being that mean to her, because Bella wasn't used to fighting with brothers and would probably take it too seriously. I rolled over reluctantly and squinted up at her, blinded by the bedside lamp she'd apparently switched on.

Bella looked ready to bolt, but she said, "It's almost five. Remember, you're not supposed to sleep too long or you'll — "

"Be up all night," I finished, yawning. "What a change that would be." I settled back against my pillows. "Well, I'm awake, but I'm not getting up this second. You want to sit and talk to me?"

She nodded and lowered herself onto the edge of my bed, laying her crutches across the bottom. "I'm sorry I snapped at you," I said contritely. "I can be an asshole sometimes. And I'm still really tired. I get nasty when I'm tired."

"That's not true. You've been so nice to me since I came here," said Bella shyly. "That first night, you let me sit next to you, and you've been letting me play your piano. Alice said you don't like people to touch it. Well, not the one in your music room, anyway," she amended. "The one that was your mother's."

"I get irritated if people bug me when I'm trying to play," I admitted. "And I don't like when anyone goes in there when I'm not around and messes with my things. But I don't mind teaching you like we've been doing."

I usually practiced for a couple of hours after coming home from school, because once Dad gets home he likes us all together, but I'd bother people if I practiced out in the living room. Once everyone was off taking their showers or whatever, I could typically get in another half hour or so before bed. Now that had become mine and Bella's piano lesson time. She wasn't really coordinated enough for anything but the simplest tunes, but I found it was still fun to teach her and see her pleased smile when she finally nailed a new concept.

Bella said, "When I was in the hospital, your dad told me how sweet you are. He said you and Emmett are both really kind and never get in trouble. And he was right. I can't see you being mean. Maybe snappish, but not mean."

I snorted. "I don't know what he was trying to sell you, but I get in plenty of trouble. Just ask Alice."

"Oh, really? What's the worst thing you've ever done?" she challenged me.

"I ran away when I was eleven," I replied without hesitating.

Bella looked like she was having trouble understanding me. "You _ran away?_" she repeated slowly. "Why?"

"Well . . ." I scrunched up my face while I thought. I'd told her because I wanted to see her eyes pop, but I really didn't like talking about that. Not all of it, anyway. Not the Alice part. "We'd been arguing, Dad and I, mostly about candy. Alice was with us by then, and with the research he was doing on her condition, he found out that sugar is really bad, worse for you than most people think. Apparently, they've found that when you completely take kids off it, they do better in school, they're calmer, sleep better . . . and, what was important, people like Alice can return to almost normal. So we were all supposed to stay away from it. I got in trouble a few times for sneaking."

"You ran away because Carlisle made you stop eating _candy?_" Bella's voice went up an octave as she spoke, and I didn't blame her. After what she'd been through, she must think I was such a spoiled brat. Maybe I was. She didn't know the whole story, but if _I'd_ known the whole story when I was eleven, I'd never have run away in the first place.

"Well, no, not just that," I said defensively. "I mean, it was more because I didn't want him telling me how to live. I didn't like having to change everything because of Alice. There were other things, too."

"Like what?" Bella said. She was definitely upset.

I sighed. I doubted I could really make her understand, because I didn't think I could talk about what had happened between Alice and me. Alice had been Bella's little shadow ever since she came home from the hospital, and even though Alice had told me about the little spat over Bella's old clothes and Tufty the Bear, it was obvious they'd worked that out and were becoming very close. Bella clung to Dad pretty hard, but he had six of us plus Mom to love, and he wasn't usually home until evening, anyway. Alice became Bella's security blanket when Dad wasn't home, acting as a buffer between her and the rest of the household.

I chickened out. I couldn't tell her what I'd done to Alice. "Well, you know how we're all in bed at ten," I said, rubbing at the knees of my pajama pants. I didn't remember putting them on. "And how we're not allowed too much TV or computer time. It was little things like that. And now that I'm a little older, I see what Mom and Dad were doing, and _are_ doing — they're giving us stability. I'd only been in foster care a little while before they adopted me, but I was still shellshocked, you know? You lose your parents and get taken from your home . . . it's a lot to handle."

I'd been very lucky, and even at ten, I had known that. My caseworker kept telling me how lucky I was to get placed with a couple who wanted to adopt and were willing to take an older kid. She said I had to stay with them for at least six months before the adoption process could start, but that if I were a good boy there shouldn't be a problem. She'd glared at me at the 'good boy' part, and I'd quaked as I wondered if I'd be good enough to be adopted. I knew I wasn't good sometimes, and that these people didn't have to keep me if they didn't want to. And yet I really didn't know how to avoid making them dislike me, either. Sometimes my real parents got irritated for no special reason, but I'd known underneath it all that they loved me. There was no such guarantee with the new man and woman that were going to be trying me out for six months.

"Maybe if I'd had other homes to compare to, I'd have felt different," I continued. When Dad talks about something difficult, he rubs at his forehead or pinches the bridge of his nose. I found I was doing both at once. "But then Alice came, and Emmett, and Siobhan and Maggie . . . then, of course, Rosalie and Jasper. And you." I looked straight into her pretty brown eyes, and she flushed and looked away. "And I figured out along the way that when you've been tossed from one home to another for years, with or without the horrors that happen to kids like Maggie, or Rosalie . . . stability is like a gift from God. You can settle into a routine and know you'll be having dinner as a family every night and playing Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit until bedtime. No surprises. But at the time, it just seemed like Dad was trying to run my life for me."

"I just can't believe you ran away. At eleven," she marveled. "Where did you think you were going to go?"

I probably looked kind of sheepish; I knew I was about to sound like a huge ass. "I wasn't planning to stay long," I explained. "Just overnight. Just long enough to scare them. I was really excited about it, like I was Tom Sawyer or something, leaving and coming back for my own funeral. I thought it would be an adventure, and when I came back they'd be so grateful, like Aunt Polly, that they'd never tell me what to do again." Boy, had I been wrong. So wrong. "I was wrong."

"Did Carlisle hit you?"

I narrowed my eyes at Bella, and _her_ eyes went wide as she instinctively edged away from me. Jesus, what was the _matter_ with people? Dad would be heartbroken if he heard her say that. He'd been so nice to her; I'd seen the way he was always touching her shoulders, or her hair, or getting her to talk about her day when we were all sitting around the living room every evening. Dad never so much as raised his voice to us, and it made him so sad when that failed to earn him any trust with our foster kids.

"'Carlisle' has never hit me," I said, really low. "Ever." In the awkward silence that followed, I kept wishing I were a better person so I could reassure her that she would never be mistreated here, but it wasn't happening; her assumption made me too mad to care. Finally, I muttered, "I wish he had."

"You wish he'd hit you?" Her voice cracked a bit. Of course, she knew there were worse punishments than being hit. "Why? What did they do?"

"They watched me."

"They watched you," she repeated. "Um . . . how did that . . . work, exactly?"

I leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. "When I came home, Mom heard the front door close and came running. She saw me, and . . . Bella, the woman _burst_ into tears. You know how you hear that expression, and you picture some cartoon character with tears flying away sideways from their face? And you kind of figure they must make a noise like something popping or bursting? Mom did. I swear, one second her face was dry, and the next thing there was this moaning noise and she was _bawling. _There were, like, twelve tears running down her face and her eyes were all red. She started yelling for Dad, and just ran up and squeezed me so hard I thought my ribs were going to crack. And then Dad came, and _he_ started crying, and _I_ started crying, and _Alice_ was standing on the stairs crying . . . well, she was always crying about something back then, but still. And I've never felt like such a piece of shit in my whole life."

"Well, you should have," she muttered just loud enough for me to hear. "Worrying them like that." Louder, she said, "How'd you like it if one of them left without telling you and stayed gone all night?"

She was right, of course. No question. "I know. I know it was a horrible thing to do. The thing was," I continued reflectively, "it wasn't an adventure at all. I mean, maybe at first it was kind of exciting, but . . . well, for one thing, I couldn't very well fall asleep. Not for a while, anyway. Hell, I probably only slept a couple hours total, if that. And so I had a lot of time to think, and work myself into quite the state."

"Where did you go?" she asked.

I snorted. "The woods behind the school."

Bella looked shocked. "Jesus, Edward, you could have been killed! Do you know what's in those woods?"

I shot her an exasperated look. "Not _here,_" I enunciated. "We were living in Alaska."

"Oh." She thought about that for a moment. "Don't they have bears and stuff up there, though?"

"Well, yeah, but we lived in the city. The 'woods' were maybe a two-hundred-foot square patch between the school and some development. But hey," I said, smiling wryly, "beggars can't be choosers. At first, it was so cool, being on my own. I had a flashlight, and I tried to read, but I was kind of keyed up, you know?" Not to mention cold, and tired, and scared. "And when I saw Mom's face, and watched her fall apart crying like that . . . it wasn't a game anymore, if it ever had been. And I would have given anything to take it back." I dropped my head until it rested on my knees, and when I spoke again, my voice was muffled by the pajama fabric. "Anything."

"You said they watched you," she prompted me after a moment.

"Yeah. Uh, well, they both took off work, and we just stayed in the living room all day. Just the three of us, on the couch together. We didn't watch TV, or read, or anything. I just sat between them and they held me." I looked up and rolled my eyes. "It got damn boring after a while, let me tell you."

Bella stared at her hands for a while. I wished I could hear what she was thinking about me. I knew her father had died when she was nine, and that she'd been in a lot of different homes. Mom and Dad never told us kids private things about each other's pasts, but they act differently around Bella than they do Jasper and Rose. Less cautious. They touch her more, and without going to any trouble to make sure she doesn't get blindsided. And they haven't warned us about anything special, just to not put her on the spot because of how shy she is. So I'd assumed there couldn't be anything _too_ terrible that had happened to Bella.

But even so, just because nothing was in her file didn't mean she hadn't been screamed at, or hit, or had nothing to eat sometimes. Things usually had to get pretty damn bad before Social Services even started _thinking _there might be something wrong. She was skinny . . . but then, so was Alice, so weight wasn't always a perfect indicator. And she'd told me that her boyfriend was the one who put her in the hospital. People don't just do that after acting perfectly normal for months, so I know he must have hurt her other times, too. And even if that hadn't happened, and if she'd just been ignored or treated coldly, my 'punishment' of being held and loved by my parents was probably making her think I had to be the whiniest douche in the history of the world.

"That must have been hard," she finally said. "All day like that. I wouldn't have liked not being allowed to leave."

"Well, as opposed to what?" I reasoned. "Letting me stay alone in my room all day, wondering if they were angry or whatever? I would probably have had a panic attack if they'd just locked me away like that. But the way they were holding me . . . I knew they loved me, and that even if I were in some trouble, they'd never just abandon me. I never forgot that. And I never even _thought_ about running away again."

Before Bella could respond, if she were even planning to, we heard pattering feet in the hallway. Two seconds later, my door burst open and Alice came flying in. "Mom's home!" she said excitedly. She ran over to the bed and picked up Bella's crutches, holding them out to her impatiently. "Hurry up!" And then she was gone again. I wouldn't have been surprised to see a trail of smoke on the carpet behind her just like in cartoons.

"Come on," I said to Bella, heaving myself off the bed. "I'll help you."

While Alice ran ahead downstairs to meet Mom coming in from the garage, I lagged behind to help Bella down the stairs. When Dad's not here to carry her, she has to sit down on the carpet and slide down one stair at a time on her butt. It's pretty safe and quick, but there's always the chance she could catch her toe on the edge of the stair as she slides off of it, sending her tumbling head over heels, so someone's supposed to 'spot' her by going down a step ahead. She gets so embarrassed, because she knows it looks a little silly and she's afraid she's putting everyone out, but then, she feels the same way about everything we do for her.

I heard Mom's voice just as I got to the bottom of the stairs, holding my hand out with my palm facing Bella in case she did fall forward. She stopped on the third step with her cast foot dangling above the hallway floor and said, "I'll just stay here for now, okay? So I can see everything."

"Good idea," I said. The stairs to the upstairs started not too far from the ones coming up from the basement level, so I could stand with my arm on the banister and watch for Mom. She appeared a minute later without her coat, and Alice came barreling upstairs right afterward, probably having put the coat away in the downstairs closet. We both swarmed around Mom while Bella sat on her stair watching and Rose and Jasper kind of hovered by the kitchen.

"How's Emmett? Is he awake now? Is he going to be all right? Can he come home? Is Daddy with him? When's Daddy coming home?" Alice didn't wait for an answer to one question before demanding another, bouncing on her tiptoes impatiently and tugging at Mom's sleeve. Mom herself looked bushed, but not terribly worried, so I assumed Emmett was going to be okay. That let me relax a tiny bit. I had been fairly sure he'd pull through, but . . . you just never know.

Mom even laughed a little at Alice's exuberance. "Emmett's going to be fine, honey. He has a broken collarbone, three broken ribs, and that arm of his will need a lot of healing . . . but he's alive, and not very seriously injured. His nose isn't even broken, but it's all bruised and he has a black eye," she finished.

"Is he awake?" Alice repeated.

"He woke up for a little while," Mom said. "Still kind of out of it, but he understood he was in the hospital, and he seemed happy just to be alive. When I imagine what must have been going through his mind, when that beast was holding him down . . ." Mom's composure wavered right then; her hand came up to press against her mouth, and her eyes started to glimmer with tears. I shifted uncomfortably, hoping she wouldn't cry. I hate it when people cry.

"It's all right, Mom," I said, awkwardly patting her shoulder. "He got out okay. Jasper saved him," I added reluctantly. I didn't want to remind Mom that it'd been my brother who did all the saving. But it was only fair. I wasn't the one whose quick thinking had saved _all _our asses, and I wasn't the one whose hand looked like it was wearing a boxing glove.

Mom smiled at Jasper, who looked down at his feet. "Yes, he did," she crooned, pulling him into a hug while my heart twisted with jealousy. But she ended up hugging all of us, even Bella sitting on the steps. "My brave boys," she said when she got to me, and I didn't tell her she was only half right. "Thank God you all made it back."

"When's Daddy coming home?" Alice asked, back to tugging on Mom.

"Well, he's going to sleep in Em's room tonight, in the other bed," she said gently, smoothing Alice's hair back. "And just do his regular shift tomorrow. I'm not sure about after that. I know you miss him, baby, and he misses you. All of you," she added, looking up at the rest of us. "But he wanted to be there in case there are any complications. Not that there _should_ be any, but why risk it?"

Alice sighed unhappily. "Well, all right," she said. But her gloomy expression brightened a tiny bit when she remembered her other news. "Rose and Bella and I made dinner, Mom! I don't know if the roast came out too well, but everything's all ready."

"You sweethearts," Mom said, giving Alice another squeeze and smiling at Rose. "You've been such a help today. All you kids are so good." She looked like she might cry again.

I made a rude noise and turned on my heel towards the kitchen. Things were getting a little too mushy for me. Maybe if we all started chewing, there'd be less talking.

The roast wasn't perfect, but it was edible. And the potatoes and peas were so good that I ended up eating way too much. Dad and Emmett weren't here, so we certainly had plenty to spare. And between bites, Jasper and I tried to tell everyone the whole story about the trip. When I heard that Jasper had tried to run from the bear, I felt a mean surge of gladness. He wasn't supposed to do that. If he hadn't run, the bear wouldn't have chased after him, and Emmett wouldn't have gotten hurt. When Dad found out . . . well, he'd probably just chalk it up to Jasper's inexperience and focus on how he'd made things right by chasing the bear away. I put my fork down, suddenly not hungry anymore.

I was happy that Mom was home and that Emmett wouldn't have to be all alone at the hospital. But I was really disappointed that I wouldn't get to see Dad tonight. Lurking at the edge of my consciousness all day had been a persistent dread that he would come home angry at me. He doesn't actually _show_ anger very often, so it might just be that he ignored me or even talked to me normally, but still exasperated at my uselessness underneath it all. And even if I deserved it, I just didn't know if I could handle knowing I'd let him down.

So really, I should have been happy that he wasn't coming home tonight. But the thought of waiting until tomorrow night to know for sure made my stomach knot up. Not knowing was going to drive me crazy. I thought about calling him at the hospital, asking how Emmett was doing and listening carefully to his reaction, but that wouldn't be fair. He had more important things to do than make me feel better. He might even be asleep right now, and after the day we'd had, no wonder.

I guessed I was just going to have to wait it out.


	17. All Is Flux

**Carlisle**

I awoke in a world of white, and for one frantic moment I thought I must have died. There was that overwhelming rush of panic which comes just after you realize you've slept right through something terribly important, like the alarm clock set for an appointment, or a phone call that didn't quite manage to wake you up. I lay there with my heart hammering in 2/4 time, trying to remember where I was and what I had to do.

"Dad?" The voice sounded groggy and disoriented, as though the speaker were just as lost in the eerily glowing white mist as I was. The first thought that was able to pierce my buzzing brain was that Emmett had died, and I had followed him. But in a second it all came back: Emmett. Camping. Bear. Hospital. I was in Emmett's room at Forks Community Hospital. Esme had gone home at dinnertime to be with the kids, and I'd taken the empty bed in Emmett's room so I could be there when he woke up.

"Dad?"

"I'm here," I croaked weakly, then cleared my throat and said, louder, "I'm here, son." I shot up off of the bed and clawed at the curtains surrounding it, wincing as metal screeched against metal over my head and my white mist peeled away to reveal the room Emmett had been assigned late yesterday morning, after we'd tended his injuries and pronounced him stable. The room was dark, the uncovered windows showing nothing but black night outside, but the door was open and ugly fluorescent light spilled in from the hallway. Shining through the bed curtains, it had looked as though I was surrounded by fog. _What time is it?_ I checked my watch: three a.m. Poor kid had been out for almost twenty-four hours.

Emmett's eye on this side was swollen shut, and though I could see he was trying to turn towards me, his broken clavicle would make that painful, if not impossible. "Hang on, son, I'm coming," I said in my still-gravelly just-woke-up voice. I hurried around the bed to his 'good' side, coughing to get my voice in working order, and forced myself to smile at him, even though seeing his bulky frame lying helpless in bed made me want to throw up. I was alert now, and as clear in my head as though I'd been up for hours. Over the years, I'd developed the ability to come fully awake at once if necessary, which it often was. Some doctors claim they're able to fall asleep within seconds. I'm never able to turn my mind off on command like that. But I can at least turn it back on again with very little fumbling around.

"Hey," I said softly, snapping the bedside light on and taking his hand in both of mine as I sat down. I claimed the same hard plastic chair I had spent a couple of hours in last night, before exhaustion overtook me and sent me crawling into the vacant bed. "How're you feeling, big guy?"

"Like I got attacked by a bear." My son tried to smile, but that proved to be too painful an effort for his battered face. His voice wasn't as bad as mine, and a wave of guilt slammed painfully into my chest. He'd been awake and calling for me long enough to find his voice. I should have been where he could see me as soon as he woke up.

As though he were answering my thoughts, Emmett said, "I called you a couple times. I thought you must have gone home." Intellectually, I knew Emmett wasn't being accusatory. It was my own guilt over my many failings as a parent which read that implication into his tone.

"I would never let you wake up alone," I said firmly, silently thanking God that I'd been in the room at the time and not treating another patient, which I would have been obligated to do if there had been an emergency before Emmett woke up. But years of foster parenting had left me paranoid that I might be taken too literally and lose my son's trust. "That is, I'd never leave the hospital. I might have been in the bathroom or treating a patient, but I'm very glad I wasn't," I amended.

Emmett was learning that most facial expressions were painful, so he settled for squeezing my hand. "Yeah, I know. It's stupid of me; you should have gone home and slept."

"I slept fine here. I _wanted_ to be with you, son. Mom wanted to, too, but she didn't want to leave the other kids alone right now, and I thought you'd sleep the night. I know she'll come down as soon as I call."

"What time is it?"

"Three in the morning. Monday. You slept almost a day."

"Jasper . . ." Emmett tried to turn and moaned when his sling pulled. "Jesus, what's happened to me, Dad? I mean, I remember the bear . . . but what did it do to me? I feel like shit."

Ordinarily, I would have reminded him to watch his language, but if this situation didn't warrant a little profanity, I couldn't imagine one that would. "Well, your nose isn't broken, and your eye will be fine, but you're in for a nasty shock when you look in the mirror," I began, choosing to start with the most superficial injuries to give myself time to work up to the rest.

Emmett cut me off before I could tell him about his ribs. "What about Jasper? Is he okay? I don't rem — I know it came after me first, but then I went out. What happened to him?"

"He's fine," I reassured my son. "He burned his hand, but it'll heal. Edward and I didn't get there until the bear was gone, so . . . nothing happened to us." More guilt.

"How'd Jasper burn his hand?"

Unwillingly, I told him. He'd find out anyway. "He grabbed a branch out of the fire and hit the bear in the face to scare it off. It burned through his glove."

"Aw, fuck."

"Emmett, please . . ." I didn't finish, but he knew what I meant, and immediately became defensive.

"My brother maimed himself trying to help me and I feel like I got put through a wood chipper. Who gives a . . . You know what? As soon as you're out of the room, I'm just going to start screaming swear words."

"You do that," I said, knowing this wasn't a battle worth fighting. "If it makes you feel better. Just watch that you don't strain the broken ribs and collarbone, and try not to tear out the stitching in the arm the bear chewed on, or in the claw marks on your leg." There. I'd laid it all out for him in one clean sweep, like ripping a Band-Aid off as fast as possible. And for once, that analogy was actually close to the truth.

Emmett glanced down at his bandaged bicep, tried to turn it, and blanched. "Great. Just great." He sighed. "Wait, what about football? What about my scholarship?" he asked, suddenly awake and alert. And worried. Emmett was by far the most easygoing of our children and rarely lost his composure, or even his pleasant expression. Now, his forehead was creased and his eyes were alive with worry, making him look much older than eighteen. My heart twisted painfully in my chest. I hadn't seen him look like that since the horrible time right after we'd lost the O'Malley girls. Before that? Probably not since those first few months he'd been with us, before the stability and security of a happy home chased away his fears of abandonment and scarcity, leaving us with a soft, sweet teddy bear of a son in a deceptively large adult body.

It would have been so easy to . . . well, not to _lie,_ exactly, but to be more optimistic in my response than I actually was in my own mind. I wanted to reassure him that everything would work out fine. It would have been kinder, and who knew? Emmett could make a full recovery in time to start college in the fall. Stranger things had happened, and I'd felt for a long time that patients who made so-called 'miraculous' recoveries did so in part because they believed they could, or had been told they could by someone whose opinion they valued.

But I knew such a scenario was very unlikely, and while I didn't know what the proper etiquette was for informing the college he'd chosen of this new development, I was afraid that no matter what I told them about the likelihood of his being able to play, they would rescind their offer anyway. They weren't running a charity, and I couldn't expect them to hold Emmett's place when an uninjured student would eagerly grab it. This was precisely why Esme and I had had the be-very-careful-about-a-career-in-sports talk with Emmett as soon as he'd begun taking his athletic training seriously during freshman year. It was a viciously competitive industry where one misstep could undo years of hard work and sacrifice.

No matter what I told Emmett about his prognosis, I couldn't change that, and I refused to give him false hope that all hinged on a faceless institution's whim. I hadn't even been able to tell him I'd never let him wake up alone without adding a disclaimer. I cared too much about my family's trust to take the risk. But I had already taken too long to think about my response, and Emmett knew what I was going to say before I even opened my mouth.

"God fucking _damn_ it," he said, sounding as close to tears as I'd ever heard him.

"Son," I said, "I'm sorry, but I just don't know how quickly you'll be ready to play. I honestly believe you'll recover almost full mobility in that arm, but I don't know when, and mobility for sports is different than mobility for daily life. As far as the scholarship . . . no matter what I tell them, they could rescind it anyway, and I don't want that to come as a shock to you. You remember what Mom and I said about sports careers."

Emmett had started to thump his good hand against the mattress, something Jasper often did when the frustration built up so much that he had to lash out. "I _know_ what you said. That's why I decided I wouldn't play professionally. But I worked so _hard_ for this so I could pay for college. I trained so hard, and I studied so hard so I'd have the grades. You know it's not easy for me like the others."

"I know."

"And this wasn't my _fault!_"

"No, it wasn't."

"It isn't FAIR!" he screamed suddenly, slamming his fist against the night table just as Jasper had done to his headboard a couple of weeks ago. I closed my eyes as the water pitcher tipped over and spilled everywhere, and the lamp fell with a loud clatter on its side. I heard footsteps hurrying in our direction, and righted the lamp just as Nurse Yorkie poked her head inside the room.

"What in the world — " she started to say, but stopped and ducked out again when I looked over my shoulder at her. She knew I could take care of Emmett, and wisely concluded that this was a personal matter.

I cleaned up the mess, saying nothing. I could tell Emmett was seething, so I gave him plenty of space for a few minutes and didn't look at him or try to talk anymore. When I finally sat back down and looked him in the face, my heart sank when I saw that there were tears on his cheeks. I hadn't ever seen him cry, and it left me helpless, not knowing what I could do to help. I also didn't want to humiliate him by staring. Even now, he felt my pity and reached up to angrily swipe at his eyes with his free arm.

I had just decided to lay my head down on the bed next to him — that way I would be there, but not staring — when Emmett spoke up, and what he had to say made me feel sick to my stomach. "You looked so happy when you saw that letter. I finally made you proud of me, and now it's all gone. I didn't even get to enjoy it for a full day," he said miserably.

"Jesus." I half-stood from my chair and bent over until I was looking straight into Emmett's brimming eyes. "You think I wasn't _proud_ of you before? You think this scholarship suddenly made you into someone Mom and I could brag about when nothing else had? What the _hell_ did we ever do or say to make you feel like that?"

"You never said anything specific," Emmett muttered, looking off beyond my shoulder at the far corner of the room, "but you always go to all of Edward's piano recitals, but not my games. And you flipped when he said he was going to apply to Juilliard. You talk about his music to everyone, like when you're on the phone with Uncle Pete or your old doctor friends. But he and Alice are good at lots of things. This was all I had."

"I guess all Edward has is piano," I replied, stung by the jealousy I was hearing loud and clear in Emmett's bitter words. "If he hurt his hands, or lost interest, we'd have to drop him off at Social Services."

Emmett blinked.

"We've been to your games. Not _all_ of them, I admit, because there are so many and sometimes we were working, especially for the Saturday ones. Edward didn't have many recitals, and we had to drive him to Port Angeles or Seattle for them, anyway, so of course we stayed to watch. I'm really very upset to find out that you've felt slighted, Emmett. I had no idea we weren't paying enough attention to you."

"You pay attention. But it's like you do it because you don't want to be unfair, and with Edward you don't have to pretend."

My stomach clenched when I heard that. It wasn't true, was it? God, please tell me I hadn't really given him that impression. "I'm so sorry, Emmett," I said helplessly. "I don't feel that way. Neither does Mom. If we seemed to, then . . . all I can say is that we love you kids for what you are, not the activities you're involved in. With Edward's music, I guess we seemed more excited because he struggles with self-confidence and whenever he performed well, or when he decided to take the risk of applying to Juilliard, we felt like maybe we were part of that. We're so proud of all of you. But if anyone is good at lots of things, it's you. You're the one we don't worry about because sports isn't all you have."

"It is, though. I'm not good at _anything_ but sports. Edward is! He's a star student, he can swim, he can talk about books with you . . . He didn't even seem to want Juilliard for a while. He was talking about medical school, and that's why he's taking all those science courses. You were so happy that I wished I could be a doctor just to see you look at me that way, but I can't ever have that. Edward could. He'd end up top of his class and writing his own books and shit by the time he was thirty. Now he wants to be a professional musician, and he'll have his name on CDs and give concerts and you'll be so proud to say he's your son. I just had the football, and I even managed to fuck that up."

"I'm already proud to call _both_ of you my sons. The only thing that could disappoint me is if you give up on yourself because you think you aren't good enough to accomplish anything you want," I said. "You said you want to be a gym teacher? I think that's _awesome._ I'm not just saying that to spare your feelings. You'll be an amazing teacher." I kept stroking Emmett's hand as I talked, and I could tell he was calming down a bit, so I kept pushing. "Teachers don't make a lot of money, it's true. They make far less than they're worth, and it does make me a little sad that you won't be able to have as many material things as you'd probably like. But if you're _happy,_ and you go into work every day all excited to work with your kids? Then why would you trade that for some job you hate just because it pays more or supposedly makes you prestigious?"

"Well . . . But now how am I going to even get there? If it turns out I lost my scholarship, I'm fucked. My grades are okay, but not good enough for any kind of grants. And not because I didn't work hard, because I couldn't do any better than I have."

"It wasn't a football scholarship or a life working at McDonald's. We started a college account for you as soon as we started the adoption process. And luckily you were smart enough to put school first. A lot of kids would have gotten cocky and expected everyone to give them a free ride."

"You and Mom would've had my ass in a sling if I tried that," he muttered.

I reached over and very carefully turned his face my way. "You're not stupid, son. If it takes you a little more work to get the same grades as your brother, well, that's life. There are always people who have it easier than others. But they're the ones who end up falling more often than not, because they never learn how to focus, and when something comes along that they can't get on the first try, they don't know how to handle it. You do. And even Edward does, because we taught him to challenge himself instead of picking easy courses he could skate through. Neither of you are lazy or entitled, and you'll kick some serious ass at college," I finished.

I reached out to stop Emmett from yanking on his sling any longer. "Pick on the blanket or something, Em. That thing isn't there for decoration."

He dropped his hand and started to thump it against the bed again. It was so odd how he and Jasper, who shared no blood ties and had only known each other for six months, could share this same nervous habit. I knew Emmett hadn't picked it up from Jasper, because Em had been doing it since he came to live with us four years earlier. And the reverse was highly unlikely, since I'd had to speak to Jasper about his behavior after he'd only been with us for two days, and he'd done it then. Back then, the boys didn't share a room. The coincidence was pretty fantastic, something I had to chalk up to fate or go crazy trying to figure out.

I said, "Did it ever occur to you that I didn't have sports or music when I was your age? That maybe I wish I'd been good at something besides studying?"

If learning that Emmett was jealous of his siblings had made me sick, then at least I'd managed to utterly confuse him in return. "What are you talking about? You told me you played tennis, and you were in that fraternity and worked at the hospital . . ."

"That was college. When I took my required Phys Ed course, we had tennis, and I loved it. I was under a ton of stress, and tennis let me get it all out without looking stupid. I joined the fraternity in my second year mostly because it was the first co-ed fraternity in the history of the school and I really wanted to be part of something so . . . new, and different. I started volunteering at the hospital so I'd have something on my résumé for medical school, but it was frustrating because all they let us do was deliver coffee and organize the closets and stuff. I wanted to work with the patients.

"But it was worth it, because that's where I met your mother." We were starting to get off the subject. "The point is, all that came later. It does for most people. You're going to find out that high school is a whole separate world, son. Most people, when they get to college, either find their place or completely collapse, and I really think a lot of it has to do with expectations. The ones who go in expecting to rule the roost are in for a huge shock, because there are just too many people on most campuses for one person to be noticed. But if you just go in determined to put your best self forward, it can be an amazing experience. A lot of people find themselves there."

"I didn't know that," Emmett said slowly. "I thought . . . I was worried what I'd do when I got there. I wanted to be popular like you were. So you could say I really did well at college, even though I'll never make the grades you did."

This whole conversation was so bizarre. Out of all the kids, Emmett was the _last_ one I'd ever expect to suffer from self-esteem issues. I said, "I wish you'd told me that you felt this way, Em. I hope I could have cleared it up for you. We don't push you because we want a family of superstars. We push because we want you to understand that you can have anything you want, not just what comes naturally. You said back at camp that you're not 'smart like me.' If you really think I'm so smart, then am I a failure because I just ended up a small-town doctor in Bumblefuck, Washington?"

Emmett furrowed his brow as he thought. "Well, you chose to come here. You were doing really well in Anchorage."

"I wasn't writing books or curing cancer. So wasn't I just a cog in the machine?" I wasn't upset, and my voice had been perfectly neutral while asking Emmett these things.

He sighed and muttered, "I don't know. I just don't know anymore." And it was clear he wasn't up for more conversation right now, so we lapsed into silence again.

Eventually Emmett fell back asleep, and for the longest time I sat and watched his chest rise and fall, thankful that he _could_ breathe. As painful as his disappointment had been to witness, I knew and he knew that it could have been so much worse. He was alive, and would be getting the best medical care anyone could have. He had a family that loved and supported him, and we had the money to pay for his education even if this incident cost him his scholarship. As an added bonus, if a sports career had held any lingering appeal for Emmett — and I wouldn't have blamed him if in his wildest fantasies, he saw himself accepting an offer to play professionally — surely this whole ugly situation would anchor the cautionary lectures Esme and I had been giving him since he started high school.

And yet I would have given anything for this not to have happened at all.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to the silent room. I wasn't even certain to whom I was apologizing. To Emmett, my son whom I'd failed to protect? My wife, whose eldest child had almost been lost due to my negligence? Jasper, whose nightmares would continue long after his burns had healed?

The ache in my chest was so powerful that I thought my heart was going to be crushed from the pressure. I knelt next to the bed and leaned my forehead against the cool metal. And I did what I always had when life became too much for one person to handle. I prayed.

* * *

Over the next two days, our schedule was even more hectic than usual as both Esme and I tried to balance the needs of our sick son with those of the others at home. Emmett came home on Tuesday, which made him happy, since he said the hospital was like prison compared to home. Not that home would be a huge improvement when it came to how much freedom he had, seeing as how there would be stairs to navigate and he'd have to use a wheelchair if he wanted to get around the first floor without risking his stitches tearing out. Crutches were out of the question because of his collarbone. Even Bella had trouble with them; she claimed they strained her ribs, which was why I carried her whenever I could. But at least Emmett would have his own comfortable bed, all the food he wanted, and the calm and security of a familiar place and routine.

Esme and I traded off 'Emmett shifts,' as we called them, so that there was always someone home with the kids. They were certainly old enough to be left home by themselves, but neither of us felt comfortable doing that, what with Bella needing so much help. She could fall down the stairs, or in the bathroom with its slick floor and hard, unforgiving surfaces, or hurt her ribs again . . . Like most parents, our brains kept coming up with new and improved worst-case scenarios. And the others, though they tried hard to hide it, were not reacting well to all the changes in our normal routine. Surely a parental presence had to be at least a little bit of comfort to them.

At noon on Monday, Esme came to the hospital with a hot meal for Emmett, while I went home to have lunch with the other kids. I pulled up to the house just as Esme was backing out of the garage, and we stopped alongside each other and opened our windows to talk.

"Lunch is all ready for you," she said, and I caught a whiff of something delicious coming from her car. Emmett would be thrilled to have a homemade meal brought to him in bed. He'd had to make do with breakfast from the employee lounge, which was far better than regular hospital food, but nowhere near equal in quality or quantity as our hearty meals around the dining room table.

I tried to lean out my window to kiss my wife, but we were just far enough apart that I'd have had to open the door to reach her. I settled for squeezing her hand before she cruised past me and on down the driveway towards the main road.

Before the door from the garage was even fully open, I heard hoofbeats thundering down the wooden stairs from the living room, followed by a thump and a crash as their perpetrator miscalculated, tumbled the last couple of steps, and took out the corner table on the landing. I choked back the laughter that bubbled up unbidden in my chest. Alice could be hurt, although this kind of thing wasn't uncommon for her at all. Zipping around like the roadrunner the way she did, there were often accidents. It was only her bizarrely energetic way of approaching life, like a fly constantly pinging a window, that made me want to laugh. I started to hurry up the lower stairs to tend to her, but Alice had already recovered and was barreling down them towards me.

"Are you hurt, sweetheart?" I asked as she slammed into me for our hug.

"I just banged my hip. I'm fine," Alice said, squeezing me so tightly that she grunted from the effort.

I picked her up. "Which hip?" Alice patted the left one, and I shifted her weight in my arms so I could reach it for her. "Alice, how many times have I asked you to be more careful on those steps?" I chided, rubbing at that hip with my palm in an effort to take some of the hurt away. But my admonishments were weak at best, because it's hard to sound stern with tiny little arms wrapped around you and a snub nose nuzzling your neck.

"About as many times as you've told us all to watch out for bears when we camp," Alice said saucily.

"You little brat." I started up the steps, not very worried that I would stumble with Alice in my arms — she was less awkward to carry than Bella, and I'd certainly had enough practice lately — but hoping no one else would feel the need to tackle me while I balanced precariously on the edge of a stair.

I needn't have worried. Emmett was the most physical of our children, and it was he who would be the most likely to try something like that. Edward looked forward to my coming home from work every day, but he was quieter about it, and with Rose and Jasper, I counted myself lucky if they even accepted my coming-home hugs. Bella, on the other hand, soaked up any attention I gave her, answering my questions about her day and letting me hold her and stroke her hair, but with her leg the way it was she was always sitting when I came in. I looked forward to the time after she was free of her cast, and I'd have _two_ baby girls to greet me after work. I only hoped the furniture could hold up.

Even though it was lunchtime, it felt like a typical evening at home, though Esme would usually be there. The kids picked up on my manufactured cheer and behaved almost normally. Edward's hug was less enthusiastic than usual, I noticed, but Esme had told me on the phone that he'd been quiet and moody ever since we came home. He was probably still shellshocked over what had happened, and unlike me, he didn't have anything occupying his attention to get his mind off things. We'd even kept the kids home from school, knowing that they wouldn't be able to concentrate anyway. Some people say that during times like these, it's important to stick to routines. Maybe that works for some families, but school for our kids can be difficult at the best of times. Emmett is the most easygoing of all of them, and even he feels stifled by the fishbowl sometimes. Perhaps we were slackers, but when the going got tough, the Cullen kids got excused from school.

"Dad?"

I snapped out of my reverie and focused my attention on Edward. The food was all prepared and someone had already set the table, so after the homecoming pleasantries were over we'd all dug in to the feast Esme left us, and I'd been letting my mind wander. Now Edward and Alice were looking at me reproachfully. "Sorry, son, I wasn't paying attention."

"That's okay. Um . . ." He glanced at Jasper, who was working on clearing his plate as though there were a prize for finishing first. "Um, we wondered if there was going to be an investigation. Like when Maggie broke her finger that time."

Oh, boy. Jasper, Rose, and Bella all stopped eating and stared at me worriedly. They knew what Edward meant. It had probably already crossed their minds that Emmett's and Jasper's injuries would earn us a visit from a social worker, but maybe, like me, they'd pushed the thought away in all the upheaval and forgotten to ask Esme. I had already made the call to Social Services, but hadn't seen my kids to keep them informed about it.

"Yes," I said carefully, laying my fork down and steepling my fingers. "Yes, son, you know they'll have to investigate. And they should. I know it's scary when it happens, but we have nothing to hide, and they only do this for your safety. All of your safety," I added, looking each of my foster children in the face in turn. "I was going to talk to you all about this after we bring Emmett home tomorrow, but I guess there's no point in waiting. What usually happens is that they send a social worker to the school to meet with you, and you get called out of class. With Bella and Emmett home, they might send one here instead and talk to you in private. They'll ask you some questions about what happened, and sometimes they ask about other things. It's really just a formality. As long as you tell the truth, even if the truth is 'I don't know,' everything should be fine.

"Now, frankly, I can't imagine what there is to lie about off the top of my head, but I know that when you're put on the spot, all kinds of stupid little things come up that you want to deny, or gloss over. Sometimes they can be very . . . They can sound like they're making accusations, or they bring up totally irrelevant stuff that sounds like they're trying to corner you, to trick you into admitting that this isn't a good home to be in, and you get defensive and contradict. And I'm telling you right now that that can't happen. You bend the truth even once, and they find out, then suddenly it looks like we're covering something up. Not to mention that it just isn't fair to you kids to be lying for us, no matter how unfair the questions may seem."

Silence. Everyone was either staring at his or her plate or playing with the food on it. I tried to lighten the mood. "Come on, guys. There're six of you, and you're all active kids. The law of averages says someone had to get injured eventually."

"We're just lucky it wasn't Edward. He could have sprained a finger playing his piano," Alice said in a mock-serious tone.

"Shut up," Edward muttered, stabbing furiously at his beans with his fork. Alice's smile hadn't been big in the first place, given the tension in the room, but it slipped away entirely at the uncharacteristic venom in Edward's voice. Despite the rocky start they'd had when Alice joined the family, those two were very, very close, and Edward rarely spoke to her that way.

"Edward," I said softly. Edward's fork clattered on his plate, and his chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stormed out of the kitchen without looking at any of us.

There was another awkward silence. Alice stared down at her plate. I reached over and squeezed her hand. "It's okay, baby. We're all a little on edge right now." She nodded, but didn't speak for the rest of the meal, which was highly unusual for her. Normally she couldn't shut up, and even had to be reminded, at sixteen, not to talk with her mouth full of food. Jasper, Rose, and Bella barely said a word either, but at least that was normal.

'Normal' can be such a subjective term.

* * *

The curtains in the boys' room weren't closed, but the moon had waned down to almost nothing, and there was little light in there. I hesitated in the doorway, wanting to check on Jasper, yet not wanting to wake him up accidentally by turning on the light. But I heard the whisper of sheets moving in the darkness and knew he was awake, and then the bedside light came on. I was startled to see that Jasper was actually sitting up in bed with a book next to him. He had either fallen asleep reading, or had heard me coming and hastily shut off the light, hoping I would just walk on past. I was betting on the latter.

Esme and I had traded shifts again — when I came home from the hospital at six-thirty, she had left to spend the evening with Emmett. It was now nearly midnight, and she'd promised to come home when he was asleep. I would spend the night sleeping in Emmett's room and start my shift in the morning . . . and right before noon, instead of Esme bringing lunch to Emmett, I would bring Emmett home in time for lunch.

I could see now that Jasper wasn't alone; there was a lump under Emmett's quilt that had to be Rosalie. Jasper followed my gaze and flushed. "Esme said she could sleep in here while Emmett's gone," he explained quickly. "She's been really shook up about what happened."

"Well, at least she's asleep. What about you?"

"I stay up in case she needs me." It was a lie. I knew, and Jasper knew that I knew even as the words were leaving his mouth. Rose wasn't the reason he wouldn't, or couldn't, go to sleep. She was only the most convenient excuse. I looked at him hard for a moment, noting the dark shadows under his eyes and the pinched, desperate look of someone holding on by a thread, and I know he sensed my pity and felt ashamed. Jasper's face reddened further as he dropped his gaze to the quilt. That was when I noticed something else different: his normal bedspread was gone, and in its place was a new quilt, the black-white-and-red one that had been slowly growing in size in my wife's sewing room for months. Esme must have finished it over the weekend.

"You like it?" I asked, pointing to the quilt, careful to keep my voice low so as not to wake Rosalie.

Jasper nodded. "I do," he whispered back, tracing one of the white-patterned squares. "It's, uh . . . it's . . . pretty?"

I rolled my eyes. "That's the most masculine word you could find?" I teased him. Jasper gave me a small smile in return, and I sobered. "I hope you told her, son," I said, easing myself down onto the quilt next to his legs. "Esme puts so much love into her projects, especially these quilts. That's why they sometimes take a while, because she refuses to work on one if she's not feeling terrific. She says everything has its own vibration based on the dominant emotions around it. If she made this for you, it means she was thinking about how much she loves you the entire time."

As I spoke, Jasper continued to stroke the fabric as though he needed something to keep his hands occupied. "I did tell her," he said, too quickly. "Really, I did." He looked up at me earnestly. "I wouldn't forget that."

"Of course you wouldn't, at least on purpose," I assured him. "I've read that men's brains just aren't programmed for details like that, that's all. Sometimes we don't know we're being thoughtless, and Esme wouldn't show it, but she'd be terribly hurt. She'd think you didn't like it for some reason."

"I _do_ like it." And I could tell that Jasper meant it, just by the way he looked at the lovely thing and how tenderly he was handling it. "No one's ever made me something like this before."

I let him admire it for another moment, and then I changed the subject. "Is your hand hurting very badly?"

Jasper let go of the quilt with a sigh and lay back against his pillows. "A little bit," he admitted, sounding reluctant. That spoke volumes in and of itself. Jasper wasn't a complainer. If he told me it hurt a little, it probably hurt a great deal. Esme had picked up Jasper's prescription that morning and handed it to me through the car window when I came home for dinner. Now I took it out of my jacket pocket and shook one pill out into my hand. Knowing I shouldn't, I shook out two more and placed all three on his nightstand.

"I'm leaving you these in case it ends up that Esme and I are gone or busy when you need a dose. Things are going to be crazy around here for a while. I trust you. Don't make me regret that."

Jasper nodded. "I won't."

I stood up and tucked the pills back into my pocket. I'd split up the rest into two bottles and give one to Esme before I left. I knew the rules were there for a reason, and I hated to admit it to myself, but I wouldn't feel comfortable giving Jasper access to the whole bottle anyway. He was such a good boy, and tried so hard, but he'd just been through too much. One little setback, and I could see him giving in and trying to drown his pain in pills.

"You need some sleep," I said firmly, tousling his curly hair. "Come on, lie down. I'll tuck you in."

Jasper smiled crookedly, knowing it was pointless to argue. He picked up his book and laid it on the nightstand, then slid down the bed until he was lying normally against the pillow. I picked up the covers and brought them up to his chin. Jasper couldn't stand to feel confined in any way, but I did pat down the quilt around his neck and down the sides of his arms so that his outline was clear, and he didn't protest, even when I leaned down to kiss his forehead. It was a huge step from when he first came to stay here, when his arms had to be outside the covers and he couldn't stand to have anyone close to his face.

I knew he was watching me as I straightened Rosalie's covers and brushed her hair back from her face, but he didn't move. I didn't kiss Rose; she'd panic if I tried while she was awake and lying vulnerable in bed, and it didn't seem fair to do it just because she wouldn't know. I settled for covering one of her hands with mine and giving it a tender squeeze. I whispered a good night to Jasper and left, leaving the door open just a crack the way we did with all the doors at night. In case one of the kids needed help, and also so they all had a tiny bit of light from the hallway.

I checked on Alice and Bella and found them both asleep. Edward was, too. I'd tried to take him aside after dinner, but he said he wasn't ready to talk about the camping trip yet. I could certainly understand that, and having him tell me flat out that that was what made him irritable was better than having to guess at his moods. It was more than we ever got from Rose or Jasper. Even now, when there could be no doubt what was making them edgy, neither seemed to feel comfortable opening up about it, but more disturbing was the fact that they didn't ever seem to understand what was affecting them. They had spent so many years in constant chaos that they couldn't even separate the incidents anymore. I didn't think they could really process the fact that Rose had had a fight with Emmett on Thursday and then, three days later, Jasper had been hurt camping. It wouldn't surprise me if they looked at everything as one continuous stream of madness.

Sometimes Esme and I felt as though we were spinning our wheels, because no matter how much progress we seemed to make, until the adoption went through there would always be a certain level of mistrust from both of the twins. I knew we would be good for them. But they kept us at arm's length even now, and who could blame them? Too many shattered hopes had been crammed into their short lives for six months to make a difference, particularly when they knew that Social Services could still turn everything upside down at any time. Until they were adopted or turned eighteen and could stay where they pleased, we were trapped in a hellish limbo that only DSHS — _Douches,_ as Alice called them — could dream up.

* * *

I stood at the picture window in the living room, waiting to see Esme's headlights piercing the darkness outside. The only light inside came from the night-light in the hallway near my study. The moon was nearly gone and outside it was black as pitch. I'd be able to see Esme from the main road if I watched carefully. She would be here when our kids woke up, and at lunchtime our boy would come home for good.

I felt calmer than I probably should, given our sticky situation. Things were a royal mess right now, it was true. In the beginning, when it had just been Edward, then later Alice as well, we'd seen every little crisis as having the potential to explode out of control and turn the whole world upside down. Over time, of course, we'd realized that Plato was right: All is flux, and nothing stays still. And like Rhett Butler, the world doesn't usually give a damn. It really hadn't been so very long; Edward had only been with us for six years. But no matter how bad things got, life marched on tirelessly. Even after Maggie's funeral, there was still work and piano lessons and Emmett's baseball games in the muddy grass behind the school. Before long, I'd found myself not feeling guilty for laughing at Alice's parody of _Coppélia_ in the living room. By the time Rose and Jasper arrived, we were all able to laugh without cutting it short and glancing apprehensively around the room as though afraid of offending anyone.

And as dark as everything was right now, I knew that this, too, would pass. Whatever happened, the Cullen family would protect its own.

"Daddy?" a little voice called softly from the staircase, jolting me out of my reverie. I heard a car door slam and realized Esme had managed to coast all the way up the driveway and into the garage while I was lost in thought.

"Daddy?" the voice repeated.

Only one of my kids called me that. "What, baby girl?" I murmured, shifting my focus to her dark reflection in the glass, backlit by the night-light. Alice didn't answer right away, but the shadow came closer and soon I felt her steal up softly behind me and slip her hand into mine. The door from the garage eased opened downstairs and the alarm gave a soft warning ping.

"Nothing," she said, leaning her forehead against my arm. "I just wanted to be sure of you."


	18. Any Port in a Storm

**Bella**

I was so screwed. So utterly screwed. Again.

I _hated_ them so much. I hated everything about them, from their perfect house and perfect jobs and pantries stuffed with food right down to their shiny cars and big comfy sofas all over the house and _especially_ the little rooms they had, a study for Carlisle and sewing room for Esme, all to themselves while they piled foster kids up to the ceiling and got mad at us when our checks were late.

I lay in bed, staring blankly up at the little glow-in-the-dark stars above Alice's bed, and tried to breathe deeply so I wouldn't start to cry. Across the room on the sofa bed, Alice was already asleep, and I tried to match my breaths to hers. Meanwhile, I was trying to remember where all my stuff was in the house and how I could get it together in one place without being obvious, or at least the things I most wanted to take with me.

All my school stuff was piled on the long table against the wall next to the stairwell in the living room, where I could get to it without climbing the stairs. I'd been working on catching up every day when the other kids went to school. I wasn't _very _far behind; James and I left when the school was already on Christmas break. But they'd gone back while I was still in the hospital, and then having to wait for my school transfer to go through had let the work pile up a bit more. I had trouble concentrating sometimes because of my leg. The textbooks I could leave behind; they'd be useless in Seattle. But I needed my backpack.

My boots and coat were down in the closet by the garage door, not that I'd ever gotten to wear them. Where would I wear boots with my leg in a cast? For the first time in a very long time, I had warm snug boots that no one else had worn, and I could only wear one of them because of what James had done to me.

My box of photo albums was in the closet across from my bed. Thanks to Alice, all the clothes I'd had when I came here were gone. I doubted they would send me away with _no_ clothes, since Social Services might say that was a sign of neglect (if they even gave a crap, which I also doubted). But some of the things still had tags on them, and Esme might keep them for Rosalie or some other kid. Even if she didn't have anyone to give them to, I wouldn't be surprised if she kept them just out of spite. So it might be a good idea to pack a few different things in my backpack in case they surprised me and packed up my stuff themselves, in which case I wouldn't get to pick what I took along. I'd put my treasure box in the bottom of the bag and try to keep it with me all the time. I couldn't take my Gameboy because Carlisle hadn't ever given it back to me. So mostly I was concerned about the box of albums. I wished Billy hadn't given it to me. I couldn't carry it everywhere, and if I left without it they'd probably just throw it away.

I was scared to go out of the bedroom. Esme might hear me and think I was trying to steal more food. Not that the thought hadn't crossed my mind, since I usually got hungry late at night if I wasn't asleep, or if I woke up without sleeping through the night. Sometimes the hunger got so bad that I started to shake and feel dizzy, even lying down. That's why I hid the food under my bed. I tried to tell her that, but she didn't want to listen. Even now, it scared me to think about how angry she'd been and what she could be capable of if I got her mad again. But I knew I wasn't getting to sleep anytime soon, and if I had to think about things any longer, I'd cry and risk waking someone. I wanted to go down into the basement where I could cry without anyone hearing me. Actually, I knew there were spare keys to each of the cars on a rack in the garage, so I was thinking it might be better to hide in one of the cars. No one could hear me then. Esme had told me the alarm code when I first came here, and I was pretty sure it only gave a little ping when deactivated.

Esme again. Every time I thought of her, I got sick to my stomach. She'd been so nice when I first moved in, and like an idiot, I'd let it lull me into a false sense of security. I should have known better than that. No matter how many times I got burned, somehow I always eventually fell for it again. It was far worse when you weren't really expecting it to happen.

I carefully slid out of bed, listening for Alice's breathing to change, and crutched my way across to the bedroom door. It was open a crack, like all the doors were. Even the master bedroom door was usually open, although Alice had informed me that if it was closed with a sock on the doorknob, it meant they were having sex and I shouldn't knock unless it was a real emergency. At first that had seemed really nice to me; a lot of places I've lived, the parents kept the door shut all the time. I know it's stupid since I'd never go to them for anything anyway, but having it shut always made me feel like they were trying to keep me out. The Nylunds even shut it when they weren't _in_ it, like I was a dog that might go jump on the bed and leave muddy pawprints and hair everywhere if the lack of opposable thumbs didn't keep me from turning the doorknob. I wished now that Esme's and Carlisle's door _was_ closed, because then she'd be less likely to hear me.

There was a hook for my crutches at the top of the staircase, and I tried not to make any noise getting them onto it. I also tried to keep my weight even on my good heel and my hands as I slid down the stairs on my bottom; each creak seemed to me as loud as a gunshot. But when I'd made it all the way to the ground floor and stopped to listen, I didn't hear anyone stirring. Emmett wasn't even snoring, even though Carlisle had joked that he'd probably raise the roof now with his nose all messed up. Well, maybe he was awake, at that. He looked like hell and had to be in a lot of pain. I actually really felt bad for him; it's just that part of the reason I wished he hadn't gotten hurt was that it would mean I might have a better chance of staying. Not that there weren't enough points stacked against me anyway. Just that that was pretty much the final nail in my coffin, the fact that they now had two injured kids (well, and Jasper, though he needed a lot less help) and only one of those kids was really theirs.

The alarm only pinged once when I typed in the code, but I stood like a deer in the headlights anyway, listening for any sign that someone had heard. Nothing. With the crutches from this level — Carlisle had brought several sets home so there'd be one for every floor and I could move around without help if I had to — I crutched out to the garage and took his spare key off the rack. No way was I sitting in Esme's car. Carlisle hadn't hurt me as badly as she had, and I could smell his cologne and remember the brief happy time I'd had here with him before they both started adding things up and decided I wasn't providing a good enough return on investment.

I paused with Carlisle's key in my hand. I'd been so focused on getting downstairs without anyone hearing that I'd forgotten how hungry I was. Now that I thought about it, I suddenly felt so dizzy that I had to clutch the side of the workbench just to know which way was up. I had to get some food.

Esme had a pantry upstairs, but there was also one down here for general overflow and all her canning jars full of homemade pickles, sauces, and preserves. I slipped back into the house and went into the pantry, scanning the shelves for something I could eat without any utensils. Pickles would be good, but I wasn't sure I could keep them down. Maybe tomato sauce? I could sort of drink it out of the jar like a smoothie. And tomato anything sounded _really_ good right now, just what I wanted. I stuffed a jar down the front of my pants and crutched back out into the garage.

Carlisle's car smelled like leather and cologne. Once I was safely in the backseat with all the doors shut and locked, I unscrewed the lid of the jar and took a huge gulp of the delicious food. Like everything that Esme made, it was bursting with fresh flavors. I knew she used her own herbs and tomatoes to make this sauce, and I remembered the day Carlisle had told me about the garden they all had in the summer. I'd told him that I'd love to help with the gardening, and he'd let me believe I was going to be around in the spring when they started planting. Turns out that I hadn't even lasted a month. My eyes brimmed with tears even as I drank the tomato sauce, the salt taste lingering on the corners of my mouth and tainting the food. But I was so hungry and so sad that I just kept eating and crying at the same time, even jamming my hand down into the jar and scooping out the last bits left on the sides and bottom. I licked my fingers clean, then lay down across the backseat and stared at the floor of the car through eyes too blurry to care what they were looking at.

* * *

I don't know how long I lay there with tears dripping sideways onto the upholstery, but I started to feel really sleepy after a time, and I knew I had to go back inside. If I fell asleep, not being able to hear the others getting up in the morning would probably mean I'd sleep right up until Carlisle left for work. Even if he wasn't mad at me, and I couldn't be sure he wouldn't be, I'd have to explain why I was here. And try as I might, I just couldn't think of a lie that wasn't worse than the truth.

I'd had my cry already, and hopefully the sniffling and gasping I was doing now wouldn't be enough to wake anyone from way downstairs. The little den in the basement was sort of a miniature of the living room, with three small couches in a semicircle around the fireplace and another, longer, one over by the TV. The couches near the fireplace were partially hidden by a dividing wall, so I thought I'd feel pretty safe over there. I stuffed the empty tomato sauce jar and lid way down into the garage trash bin and covered it up well. I made sure to lock Carlisle's car up, put the key back, and reset the alarm when I came back in. It beeped again, but this time I was less scared about being found out, since Alice had told me that they all come down to the den once in a while when they can't sleep, so it wouldn't be such a big deal if I woke someone up and they found me here. One time Alice said she came down and found Edward on the couch left of the fireplace and Emmett on the longer one near the TV. She said she felt like she was at a slumber party.

While that was comforting, I didn't feel in much of a party mood when I came around the dividing wall and saw Jasper had claimed one of the sofas. In fact, I stepped back so hard I almost overbalanced and fell. He was awake, too, and staring right at me, so it's not like I could just slink away.

"Did you just come in from the _garage?_" he asked curiously. Jasper's voice always seemed too deep for someone his age, or his size. He wasn't tiny, but Emmett was the one I'd expect to have a booming baritone like that. I looked down and nodded. There was silence for a moment. "So no one could hear you?" he finally said.

"Mm-hmm," I answered reluctantly. It was really uncanny how Jasper guessed stuff sometimes. Like on Monday when he'd walked in on me trying to pry open that envelope from the state; it was like he took one look at me and knew what I was up to. "I was in Carlisle's car."

"That's actually a really good idea. I never thought of it."

I stood there uncertainly, squeezing and unsqueezing the crutch handles. Jasper didn't make me uncomfortable or anything, surprisingly, but I knew I was probably going to cry a little more and I was feeling kind of snappy at him for being in my space. But the next thing he said was, "Take the other couch. You don't have to feel weird that I'm here." So I did. Jasper had his quilt with him, and he made me take it while he took the throw blanket from the back of the couch. I thought that was really sweet. Sometimes with foster siblings, you form a bond because you're both in the same crappy situation. But I'd had others who were really mean to me, and even foster brothers who beat up on me, so there weren't any guarantees. Things were really unfair. Why did this have to happen just when I found the one home that was practically perfect?

Neither of us said anything for a little while, but presently Jasper asked, "So you wanna tell me what you're upset about?" If it were anyone else, I'd probably have said 'no' really rudely. But Jasper was different. It was so weird, because Alice had told me how he tended to freak out, and he always seemed on guard, but at the same time I found him really relaxing to be around. And I always ended up saying more to him than I intended. Like now.

"I'm getting thrown out," I said miserably. "I heard Esme on the phone today. I think she was talking to her sister? Charlotte someone."

"Charlotte's her cousin, actually, but everyone calls her Aunt Charlotte. Even me and Rosie. She's really nice. She's our CASA volunteer, the one who asked them to take us."

"Oh." I didn't know if I should go on. Jasper wouldn't like it if I said anything bad about his 'aunt,' but from what I'd heard it seemed she'd been encouraging Esme to get rid of me, so I couldn't feel too warm towards the woman even if I'd never met her.

"Go on," Jasper said.

"Um . . . Esme was saying she'd called and they couldn't take me right away, so she was going to try again. She said she'd drive to Seattle if she had to, but that they should have been on top of this. I guess she meant they should come pick me up and not expect her to drive me there."

Jasper was silent again for a moment. "Well . . . huh. That's weird. Did something happen? I don't get why they'd want you out all of a sudden. You just _got_ here." He sounded kind of nervous. I guess he was worried they'd get rid of him and his sister, too. But Esme and Carlisle were trying to adopt the twins. I figured they were probably safe. I was the interloper, the one they'd only taken in a few weeks ago, out of charity.

"I got into some trouble on Saturday," I admitted reluctantly. "While you guys were camping."

"What happened?"

It made my stomach knot up just to think about it, but I told him anyway. "Alice found some food I'd hidden under my bed. It was just stuff that was about to be thrown away anyway. But she told Esme, and Esme started yelling at me that she fed me plenty and I didn't need to steal. Then she got a big trash bag and threw everything in it." My eyes pricked with tears again. She'd tossed all that food away without even looking at it. She'd been so angry that I was afraid she'd start opening my drawers next and adding the contents to that bag. And Alice just stood in the background the whole time, staring. I was too terrified to speak, so I'd finally rolled over and curled up in a fetal position on my bed until they both went away.

"Sometimes Esme yells at me, too. I don't think she'll kick you out over it, because I've done some serious shit and I'm still here. But that phone call was weird," Jasper said.

"There's another thing, too — you remember on Monday when you found me with that envelope?"

"Yeah, you said you hoped it was your check. I thought that was strange, because you've only been here a couple weeks and it can take _months_ before the first check arrives. They're good about it after that, but Rose and I have been in places where it was their first time fostering, and boy, did they get pissed when the first check took so long. But Esme and Carlisle have fostered a lot of kids. They know."

"But on Friday before you left, I heard Carlisle complaining about it when I went by his study to use the bathroom. He was telling Esme how he's sick of the state always being behind but expecting them to jump the minute they say so. He — " I was really working myself up again; there was a huge lump in my throat that made some of my words come out all choked. "H-he was talking really loudly. Almost yelling. He yelled at me last week, too. But Alice said he never yells, so it must be just me."

"Wait, are you sure he was talking about your check? 'Cause last week he was fighting with Social Services about counseling for Rose and me. They were supposed to pay for it, but never did. It could be that."

"He said my name," I said sadly. Jasper was trying so hard to make me feel better, and I really appreciated it. But he hadn't heard these conversations. I knew they were about me.

"Oh. Well, I guess it was the last straw. He wouldn't blame you. It's not your fault."

Like that ever mattered. "The thing is, those things made me scared enough, but then on Sunday when we got the call about Emmett . . . Now they have him to take care of. And he's their real son. Esme said on the phone that she can't deal with all of it." The tears I'd been trying to fight back spilled down my cheeks now, and my voice started to wobble. "I know he's their first priority. I just . . . I'm so scared of moving again. I really like it here, and I can't . . . My caseworker hates me . . . I just can't stand it." I pressed one hand over my mouth, but a little squeak escaped before I could stifle it. I turned over so I faced the back of the couch and rocked myself as best I could, trying not to gasp too loudly. I hated my body for betraying me; it was so humiliating to lose it in front of Jasper like this.

I felt Jasper's hand on my shoulder, warm and comforting. He was saying something, too, but I couldn't hear because my heart was pounding in my ears. I got little bits and pieces; I think he was just saying anything to calm me down. But it was different for Jasper; if I left, he and Rose would still have a home and before long they'd forget they'd ever met me. All of them would go on with their lives and I'd be all alone again. I just cried harder, and even though Jasper had been nice to me, I hated him for having what I never would. His voice faded into the background until it became a meaningless drone, as if someone had left the TV on upstairs and the sound was reaching me through the filter of hallways and walls and the closed door to the den.

* * *

Then Jasper was shaking me instead of just rubbing my shoulder, and when I opened my eyes it was light enough to see and Carlisle was standing behind the couch, looking down at me. I tensed up under Jasper's quilt. I'd fallen asleep without realizing it, and hadn't wakened in time to get back to my room before he got up. Would he be mad that I was down here? But Carlisle only smiled.

"You had a slumber party, and you couldn't invite me?" he said teasingly. Normally I'd have tried to smile in return, wanting to make him happy. Today I was too miserable to care. Today would probably be the day they told me I had to leave. Esme could be upstairs in my room even now, picking what she was going to let me take with me.

I kept my eyes trained on the floor as I sat up and waited for Carlisle to pick me up. I wouldn't look at him, because I was afraid of what I might see. But I think I still had hope that everything was going to be all right, because I cared that he held me gently and rubbed my back a bit as we went up the stairs. It made me feel very sad. I'd long ago given up hope of ever having a father to love me again. Even when my dad was alive, he was never especially warm with me, and I envied my friends whose fathers seemed much more affectionate. Carlisle's tenderness was like the answer to years of longing and skeptical prayers. But . . . he seemed to do it without being conscious of the effect. I wasn't sure he was really loving _me_ just then, or if it was just one of the hundreds of little caresses he handed out like candy all day long to everyone in the house.

My suspicions seemed to be confirmed after we reached Alice's room, when he set me down on my bed and turned to leave without saying anything. My heart twisted and I couldn't help myself: I reached out and caught his sleeve with the tips of my fingers, wanting him to turn and smile at me and ask me what was up. To call me sweetheart, or crouch so we were face to face the way he often did since I couldn't get up. Anything so I wouldn't be left alone without knowing where things stood. He didn't turn, and one more step took him out of my reach, the soft fabric slipping from my fingers as easily as sand through a sieve.

My nose itched, and my eyes prickled with tears that I didn't want to let fall in case my face wouldn't look normal by the time breakfast was ready. I was too late; Esme had already told him about the food under my bed. He'd been nice enough to me Friday night even after I heard him yelling about my check, but now he was obviously out of patience. I was just a piece of baggage to him. He'd dump me off soon.

He sure had patience for Alice, though. She launched herself at him the second he left me, and he swung her up in the air like a toddler before squeezing her against his chest in a huge bear hug that made him sway from side to side. After Carlisle put her down and left, Alice tried to talk to me, but I ignored her. She was asking what I wanted to wear. After she'd tattled on me on Saturday, gotten me into this huge mess, she seriously thought I was going to make nice and let her dress me up? I crutched over to the dresser and started pulling out my clothes myself, not saying a word. I could feel Alice staring at me, but I breezed past her — if you can really call it 'breezing' when you're on crutches — and headed for the bathroom to change. If I could help it, I wasn't going to speak a single word to her before I left.

I'd been very wrong about Alice, just like I'd misjudged her parents. At first she'd seemed very sweet; I'd been scared when I first got here, and she kind of took me under her wing. That first night I'd felt a little like Nat in _Little Men,_ lost and scared in a house full of people I didn't know and had no idea what to say to. The feeling was all too familiar, but this time Alice was my Tommy, sitting next to me at dinner and slowly working me into the group over the next few days. She was my human shield, never leaving me to fend for myself until I was settled into the household.

But even that first night I'd caught a glimpse of the selfish, hedonistic side of Alice, when she told Carlisle how gross my clothes were. I hadn't been so embarrassed in a very long time; I just wanted to sink through the floor. Carlisle might think I'd complained to her about my clothes and that we'd planned this so I could get new ones. Alice hadn't even asked me how I felt before opening her fat mouth. And I'd seen it again when she threw away my old clothes, and yet again when she tattled to Esme about the food I was hiding. It was clear that when Alice wanted something, or made a decision, she just _didn't care_ how anyone else felt. She didn't care how much it embarrassed me to have everyone hear private things about me. She didn't care how exposed I felt, or that I didn't trust her with any information that I wouldn't want broadcast to the whole family.

None, in other words.

Yet ironically, she was Carlisle's favorite. Everyone knew that. It always worked out that way somehow — the kids who got adopted or who at least got to stay with the nicest foster parents were the ones who least deserved to be treated well. It never failed.

* * *

I could tell something was wrong, and so could Jasper. Our eyes met across the breakfast table, and I saw my own uncertainty and dread reflected there. None of the others seemed to notice, and I can't even really say what it was that suddenly came over me, letting me know that things were about to change. I usually can't pinpoint it. Maybe Carlisle had been upstairs just a moment too long, or maybe whatever negative emotion he was feeling somehow got transmitted to me just then. But I knew, just like always, that something bad had happened.

I couldn't very well say anything, so I just sat and nervously twirled my fork for the next few minutes, hoping I was wrong. But as soon as Carlisle came into the room, it was obvious that I hadn't been imagining anything. Everyone stopped talking when he walked in and stood at the head of the table behind his usual chair. He didn't keep us in suspense. "Emmett's shoulder wound is infected. I'll have to bring him back to the hospital to have it treated."

Esme's little moan was the only sound in the room for a long moment, and Carlisle came around the table to stand next to her, kneading her shoulders as she buried her face in his shirt.

"Is it serious?" Alice finally whispered from her place next to me.

"I doubt it, sweetheart. It's fairly common. But it's just one more thing to worry about, you know?"

Boy, did I know. My stomach, which had begun to loosen slightly when Carlisle started to say he thought it wasn't serious, clenched even tighter than before. If I thought things had been bad before, this made it all that much worse. I guess it didn't really matter; if I was being sent away, there wasn't anything worse they could pile onto me. Losing this home was probably going to break me anyway, so what difference did it make that Emmett got sicker right before I got thrown out? But I think that I'd been stupidly holding out one last shred of hope that I could stay, that things had reached a state of equilibrium where all the kids were home and on the mend, and maybe Esme wouldn't be feeling so overwhelmed and would be willing to give me another chance. It had been such a faint hope that I hadn't even realized it was still there. When I snubbed Alice it was with the expectation that I wouldn't have to deal with her for more than a day or two anyway. But the way I reacted to the news about Emmett made me aware that I'd still had some hope left over.

There was a quote I'd read in my freshman year which had resonated so well with me that I'd committed it to memory: _Hope is the only universal liar who never loses his reputation for veracity._

* * *

Carlisle didn't even bother grabbing something to eat before rushing Emmett off to the hospital. Even though he was gone most days for work anyway, today we were all so worried about Emmett that his absence was almost a physical presence, dark and foreboding. Maybe I was feeling it more than the others because I was already expecting things to go horribly wrong for me, but it was obvious that the gloom was affecting everyone to some degree. It was Edward's and my turn to clear the table, which basically meant I stood by the open dishwasher and loaded it up with the dishes he brought in from the dining room and piled up on the counter next to me. Esme puttered around the kitchen, putting things away and obsessively wiping down surfaces until the whole room smelled like the snooty lavender organic Seventh Generation solution they used instead of Ajax or Lysol like normal people. It made me really nervous to be in the room with her, but Esme wasn't paying any attention to me anyway. After the dishes were cleared and the dishwasher was humming softly, I followed Edward into the living room where Rose and Alice were staring blankly at the TV and Jasper had his nose buried in a book.

I wanted to go upstairs and be alone, but I knew that wasn't going to fly. In most of my other homes I'd spent the majority of my time in my room, and the 'parents' preferred it that way. Here no one was allowed to hide themselves away like that. Esme and Carlisle didn't have many rules, but they did have 'expectations,' one of which was that we spend as much of our time downstairs together as possible. I had seen everyone's room when Alice gave me a tour of the house, and it was obvious Esme had put a lot of thought into designing them, all rich colors and tasteful furniture accented by intricate handmade quilts and curtains, so it seemed stupid to me that all that effort was wasted when the only thing we really did in our rooms was sleep. Not that any of it would matter after I was gone. I picked a book at random from one of the many crowded bookshelves and settled down on the sofa. After a moment, Edward joined me, but I didn't look at him. I wasn't angry with him or anything, but I'd decided it was best to remain detached around them all from now on. It might help me a little when the time came to say goodbye.

The phone rang around noon, and Esme lunged for it almost before the rest of us registered the sound. I think with all her obsessive cleaning and pacing around, she'd really just been focused on that phone. We couldn't make out what she was saying from the living room, but in any case she was only on for a minute. As soon as Esme hung up the phone, she came in and told us that Emmett was fine and she was going to start dinner so we could all go eat at the hospital with him and Carlisle.

Despite my vow to detach, I was really happy at the prospect of us all eating together at the hospital, because it meant things couldn't be _that_ bad. And the fact that they were going to all the effort of packing up a whole dinner just to eat it while sitting on plastic chairs around Emmett's bed seemed to go along with the whole family-first theme Carlisle and Esme touted. My emotions that day were bouncing from one extreme to the other, trying to read the hidden meaning in every little event, or tone, or gesture. This was one of the better feelings, when I felt like we were all part of some plot to beat Emmett's condition at its own game.

But Carlisle came home a little after four, and he brought me upstairs to get ready. That's when I found out that the 'family dinner' apparently only included adopted or soon-to-be adopted Cullens. Not me. I think Carlisle assumed I'd been told, because he said he was going to get my backpack so I could 'bring anything I wanted over there' and that he'd 'drop me off first and then come back for everyone else.'

Wait. What? "Aren't we all going together?" I asked.

"Oh, honey, I thought you knew. Esme called Billy and asked if you could have dinner with them tonight. I think you'll be much more comfortable there."

My heart started to pound, and I had to swallow past a lump in my throat at this news, which I certainly _hadn't _known. He was lying. Carlisle didn't care about my comfort; he was just looking for an excuse. They didn't want to bother dragging me along, that was all. Esme hadn't asked me, or even told me, before making plans to keep me away from them all. My eyes started to sting, but I wasn't going to cry in front of him. I spoke very quietly so my voice wouldn't tremble. "Couldn't I just stay here, then? I won't be any trouble." _Except when I go looking through your things,_ I added silently. Having everyone out of the house would mean I was free to look around for little things I could take that wouldn't be missed. It was amazing what people left lying around — change and small bills stuffed into desk drawers, small pieces of jewelry that probably wouldn't be missed for a long time, but which could bring a few dollars at one of the pawn shops in Seattle. If I was going to be forced out of here, I'd be leaving with as much as I could get away with.

Carlisle turned around from the closet with my empty backpack dangling from his hand. I was looking down at my hands, but I could feel him staring at me. "Don't you want to see Jacob and Billy, Bella?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused. "I thought you'd like to go and visit, and since it's not exactly a family dinner around the dining-room table . . ." He trailed off, and my thoughts raced as I tried to figure out why he was doing this.

No, it wasn't a family dinner at home, but it would be the whole family together, eating. Except me, if they even thought of me as family. Carlisle was going to drive me all the way out to the Rez, which was at the other end of town from the hospital, just so I could see Jacob? It didn't make sense. Either they thought I'd be uncomfortable at the hospital and start whining and nagging like a little kid being dragged clothes shopping with her mother, or else they had some reason for wanting everyone together except me. And I had a feeling I knew exactly what that reason was.

"I just . . . it's so far out of the way to the Rez, and I'm so tired anyway," I fibbed, wondering if that was the right thing to say. I couldn't very well claim to be tired but still want to come to the hospital, right? "It's . . . I know Billy will ask me a lot of questions, but if I came with you I could just listen to everyone talk." I swallowed hard. "Or I could stay here if you don't want me at the hospital. I don't want to be a burden."

"You're never a burden, sweetheart," Carlisle murmured distractedly, closing the closet door and checking his pager. My heart sank; he hadn't even really been listening. Resigning myself to the fact that I wasn't going to be included in the family dinner, I decided to make this work as much to my advantage as possible.

"Carlisle? Would it be okay if I brought that box of photo albums? I . . . I'm hoping Billy will look through them with me and tell me about my parents." That wasn't a lie, actually. I had pored over the photos greedily after Billy sent them home with me, but it would be so much better if Billy could tell me where they were taken and what was happening. I hadn't had a chance to find out much of anything from my dad, and now he was gone. But more importantly, this would be the perfect chance to get the albums to safety before I left. I couldn't necessarily get them back from Billy before being sent back to Seattle, but they would be safer at his house than the Cullens'. He'd kept them safe for me all these years, after all.

"You planning on moving in?" Carlisle said jokingly.

_If you only knew._ Of course, if he really was getting rid of me, it was also a disgustingly callous thing to say. I felt so much hatred for Carlisle right then. For both of them.

Carlisle hefted the box of albums and left the room, promising he'd stash it in the car right away. While he was gone, I filled up my backpack with my treasure box and my favorite new clothes. Alice walked in while I was zipping up the bag. I ignored her again as I tried to plan some kind of strategy for this evening.

An idea had been slowly taking shape in my mind since the morning, an idea that, though distasteful, at least gave me a purpose and ignited a small spark of hope in my aching chest. The idea was that I'd 'confide' in Jacob about what was going on at the Cullens' house. I would give him the impression that I really didn't want him to know how bad things were, but that I just had to tell someone. Which was certainly true . . . but the only reason I _was_ telling him at all was because I hoped he'd lean on Billy to let me come live with them. It would be humiliating to ask straight out, and I'd die before I put myself in that position. But there was no danger in throwing out some hints. As Carlisle drove us toward La Push, I rehearsed what I was going to say in my head, and how I was going to say it. I'd learned the hard way how to let people know what I wanted without actually asking. People were much more likely to help you if they thought it was all their own idea, and if you made them feel powerful and generous. Everyone wants to be a hero. Or at least to be treated like one.

* * *

Jacob, at least, seemed very happy to see me. He bounded down the ramp like a puppy, his long black hair swinging back and forth, and just like when I came here with Esme, he had the door open and was helping me out before Carlisle even got the keys out of the ignition.

Carlisle let Jacob guide me up the ramp, but he walked a couple of paces behind us the whole way. Maybe he was worried Jacob couldn't support me if I slipped, or maybe he was just in a hurry to get me inside so he could leave. Billy was waiting inside the mudroom, and he and Carlisle exchanged pleasantries, but both of them seemed really stiff and awkward. I wondered if Billy was embarrassed to have Carlisle see his house. Jacob had asked me last time I was here to describe the Cullen house, because he said no one he knew had ever been inside. Having spent my childhood here and grown used to my and my friends' modest homes and circumstances, then lived most of the last seven years in homes a few adjectives below 'modest,' I'd decided that a lot of people were probably in awe of the gorgeous, educated Dr. Cullen and his equally polished wife. Their renovated house was something that most Forks residents had probably only seen in magazines, or possibly during their infrequent trips to Seattle. Even I was in awe of the house. But I resented Billy having to feel inferior, especially since there was a slim chance I'd be living here soon myself, if things went the way I'd planned. Carlisle had no right to look down on my friends just because he'd been more fortunate.

And as Carlisle drove away a few minutes later, promising to be back around seven, my stomach hit its own private air pocket as I realized the box of albums was still in the backseat.

If it hadn't been for my leg, I might have taken off down the driveway to see if I could flag him down. Then again, I wouldn't be here if it weren't for that same leg. I almost asked Billy if I could call Carlisle's cell phone and ask him to come back, but Billy told Jacob to get my coat off and get me some coffee, and I didn't want to interrupt. Then he asked me how I'd been doing, and other inane Adult Trying to Make Conversation with Teenager questions, and by the time there was a pause in the conversation it was really too late to call Carlisle back. I gave up and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, hoping there'd be some other way to rescue my pictures. One of my biggest fears at the moment was that Carlisle and Esme just wanted me out of the house so they could pack up my stuff, but that was probably ridiculous. They couldn't very well bring me to Seattle tonight. Yet the nervousness persisted.

"You started school yet?" Billy asked.

I shook my head. "I was supposed to start Monday, but after what happened with Emmett . . ." My voice trailed off, and I swallowed hard. I wouldn't start school now. Not in Forks, anyway. Billy nodded understandingly, even though he didn't understand at all.

"You're keeping up with the work, though?"

"Sort of. Most of it's stuff I already went through in Seattle, but getting the assignments all written down has been tough. It's hard to write on my lap and all."

Jacob was growing impatient with our pointless conversation, and he started to bounce on the balls of his feet. "Dad, I'm going to take Bella out to see the car now, okay?"

"That's fine. I'll call you when the soup is ready." Which wouldn't be long; I could see the 'soup' out on the counter: two cans of Campbell's Chicken Noodle next to an empty saucepan and a can opener. I thought of the eggplant Parmigiana Esme had been taking out of the oven when I left the house with Carlisle, and I turned away quickly so I wouldn't start to cry.

As Jacob helped me down the ramp and across the yard toward the garage, I figured out that he hadn't just been impatient to get me where we could talk without adults around; he was really excited to show me his car. "It's a Rabbit I'm fixing up. I can't really drive for two more years, but sometimes my dad lets me drive anyway if he really needs something and one of his friends can't take him. And meanwhile I'm rebuilding the engine, only it's hard because I only make money in the summer when the Connwellers' farm is hiring and I have to get one piece at a time from the salvage yard or the dump."

Jacob started talking about horsepower and suspension and a whole bunch of gibberish, and I kind of just kept nodding and tuned him out, not having any idea what he meant by any of it. I could tell this was really exciting for him, though, so I tried to look interested. Not just so he'd feel good about himself and be more receptive when I started talking about my troubles, but because he was sweet and earnest and seemed to really want my seal of approval on this whole project. It was hard to see why, considering I could barely even _drive_ a car yet, much less understand what made it run in the first place.

I had a feeling Jacob liked me beyond us just being old childhood friends. It was hard to explain why, and God knows I'd never been the kind of girl who got lots of male attention — if I had, maybe I wouldn't have been so quick to respond to James — but maybe it was exactly that reason why I picked up the vibe from Jacob. He paid a little _too_ much attention to me. He looked at me a little too long, and he seemed too eager to agree with me sometimes, or impress me with his automotive knowledge, as if I had any idea what he was talking about. I'd had male friends before and they hadn't seemed quite so . . . interested in what I had to say. And I'm not really proud of this, but when I felt that same vibe from him this time, my immediate thought was how I could twist it to my advantage.

It's hard to cry on command if you're not already feeling sad, and for most of my life I've tried to hide when I was crying anyway. But thinking about how inept I was with cars made me think of James trying to teach me to drive, and how angry he'd been whenever I'd make a mistake. And, of course, he'd hurt me a lot worse than just yelling; my leg was proof of that even if my bruises had faded. Add that to the prospect of losing yet another home, and soon I had a steady stream of tears sliding down my face.

I've never been very comfortable looking people in the eye when I talk to them. I can do it once in a while as I'm talking, but it's so much less awkward to talk when you don't have to keep it up. So Jacob wasn't used to seeing me look right at him, and he looked taken aback when I suddenly turned and looked over at him pleadingly. And when he realized I was crying, his face went bright red.

"Hey," he said, dropping the tool he was holding and running over to sit next to me. "What's wrong, Bella? Is it something I said? Why are you crying?" He tried to turn my face to his, but I fought to keep it down. He was just too close. Maybe I was afraid that even though I was legitimately upset, Jacob would see something in my eyes this close up to tell him I was only crying in front of him to get his sympathy.

I took a few shuddering breaths and scrubbed at my face with my palms. "I'm sorry, I just . . . things have been really bad at home, and I don't know what to do anymore. I guess it hit me all at once."

"Wait, things are bad with the _Cullens?_ Why? What happened?" Jacob asked.

"A ton of things. Carlisle's upset because the state hasn't sent my check yet, and Esme's started to get on me about how much food I eat. She yells at me if I take anything extra at meals, or try to have a snack at night." It wasn't exactly a lie. The 'extra at meals' could apply to the leftovers I'd taken up to my room, and I really was afraid to have snacks now. Not that I was above lying or anything, but it didn't make me feel good by any means, so the closer to the truth I could get, the better. It was also more believable that way, and it was a lot easier to remember exaggerations than outright fabrications and keep the story straight. "I put some food aside that was left over, the very last bits from dinner," I went on. "She was just going to throw them away anyway. But she found it and started screaming at me, and threw them all in the garbage. She called me a thief. Then the day after Emmett got hurt, I overheard her talking to her cousin on the phone, and she said she'd called Social Services and told them they had to take me back."

"That's just . . . That's . . . That's just _horrible,_" Jacob breathed, leaning over so his face was right near mine, hidden as it was under my curtain of hair. "They have no right to treat you like that!"

"I'm so scared, Jacob," I said in a small voice, and I really was. I just normally didn't _tell_ people when I was. "My caseworker's always hated me. She gives me the most horrible homes, people who are just in it for the money or who treat me like some kind of juvenile delinquent. And nobody believes me when I tell them what's happening because she filled my file up with a bunch of crap about how I'm disturbed and potentially violent."

I looked up, ready to give him another beseeching look, and saw that Jacob was shaking his head. "I can't even believe this. Why didn't you ever call and tell me what was happening? My dad could have helped you!"

I almost scoffed, but managed to keep my voice tiny. "What could your dad have done? He can't make them place me in nice homes." I grabbed his hand as though something had just occurred to me. "You aren't going to tell him what I've just told you, are you? Because I wouldn't have said anything if I didn't think you'd keep quiet about it."

"Why wouldn't I tell him? He has to do something! We can't just let you go back to Seattle and deal with that psycho caseworker!" Jacob shouted.

I shook my head sadly and let his arm go. "There's nothing your dad can do. He won't want to give me a place to stay, and if he goes and makes a fuss, it'll just be worse for me. I'll have to take my chances." I looked into Jacob's eyes pleadingly. "Please promise you won't bother him with this. I'd be too embarrassed."

Jacob asked, "Why would you be embarrassed? This isn't your fault."

"Because it's humiliating, Jacob. It's humiliating to never belong anywhere, and to always be living off someone else's charity. Someone who just wants your monthly check, or to practice being a parent while they're trying to get pregnant with a real kid. It's like being a rental car that gets traded in every now and then for a different color or something. And they never let you forget that you're just on loan." That part wasn't a lie at all, and in fact was a little more than I would normally reveal to anyone. But the whole conversation was making me feel very vulnerable. "I'm just so tired of losing my home over and over and over again. I feel so . . . worthless." I turned and buried my face in Jacob's chest, not so much to make him feel big this time but because I didn't want him to see me cry when it was real, out of my control.

"Hey," Jacob said softly, rubbing my arms. "Hey. You're _not_ worthless. You're . . . you're really special, Bella. Your dad was my dad's best friend, and everyone respected him. And my dad always talked about what a sweet kid you were. You're worth a lot." His voice took on a hard edge. "If those rich-ass Cullens aren't going to keep you, then they're assholes. All that money they throw around doesn't mean _shit_ if they're too stupid to see how special you are, or too selfish to give you a home."

It felt good that someone was on my side, even if it was just another kid and he wasn't exactly impartial. But Jacob wouldn't be able to help me; it was his father who had to be convinced. And hopefully _I'd_ been convincing enough to make Jacob want to work on his dad. But how ironic that Jacob was talking about the Cullens being selfish when his dad had let me be swallowed up by the system all those years ago.

Billy called us in for dinner then, and I had to let go of Jacob. It had gotten colder while we'd been out here, and I pulled my jacket tight around me. It was even cold inside the house, and both Billy and Jacob wore their coats at the table. Either their heat didn't work very well, or they kept it really low to save money. I ate my watery Campbell's and two slices of plain white bread, longing for Esme's homemade delicousness the whole time and feeling sad that I'd never have that again. But I'd eaten much worse, and much less, than I was getting here with Billy and Jacob. At least a home with them would be better than the unknown . . . if Jacob came through.

* * *

Carlisle came for me right at seven, just like he'd said he would. I saw Jacob glaring at his back while Carlisle helped me get my coat on, so I gave him a look that made him stop. I didn't want him getting in trouble for being rude just for my sake, but it made me feel hopeful that he'd be mad enough to talk to Billy despite the promise I'd 'made' him give me. After we all said goodbye and Carlisle helped me into the car, I stared sadly out the window at Jacob standing on the ramp. It was too dark to read his expression, but he was still standing there when Carlisle backed out onto the road, and he still hadn't moved when the car got too far away for me to see him. Hopefully, Jacob was still thinking hard about what we'd talked about. I could only wait and see.

"How's Emmett?" I asked, to fill the silence.

"He's fine. He's on some very strong antibiotics, and we're keeping the wound clean with iodine. It's really not uncommon for a wound like that to get infected, but that doesn't mean it didn't scare me a bit."

I nodded without looking up from my lap.

"He'll be home tomorrow, provided the fever stays down and the infection doesn't recur."

"'Kay."

I felt Carlisle looking at me, and then he reached over and squeezed my knee gently. "I'm sorry about the photo albums, sweetie. I didn't realize I'd forgotten them until Alice got in the backseat and saw the box."

"It's okay," I muttered, even though it wasn't. There was nothing to be gained by being bitchy, and since I hadn't ever talked back to him, I wasn't even sure what he'd do. No sense in finding out now. I slouched down in my seat and closed my eyes. Carlisle took the hint and fell silent, so the only noise was the soft _swish_ of the windshield wipers and the wet sound the tires made against the road.

I stayed quiet the whole rest of the evening, pretending to be absorbed in a book while the others were talking or doing homework in the living room and Carlisle was upstairs napping so he'd be ready to relieve Esme at the hospital after we were all in bed. Alice didn't even try to talk to me at bedtime, and I lay awake long after I could tell she was asleep, her breaths soft and regular. When Carlisle came to check on us I matched my own breathing to Alice's, and if he knew I was awake, he didn't say anything. He just pulled my bedspread up a little higher and left, his keys faintly tinkling in his pocket as he went downstairs.

Maybe I shouldn't have pretended to be asleep. If I'd been able to speak to Carlisle, maybe I could have somehow let him know I was sorry about the food and kind of . . . taken his temperature about what was about to happen. But I'd lost my chance because I'd been stubborn and hadn't wanted to talk to him. At least I'd done _something_ today, even though it might not end up working for me. I was pretty sure that Jake would tell his dad what I'd said, though. I mean, who could watch someone cry and listen to them say they were afraid they'd be homeless soon and not want to do something to help? Jake couldn't very well shrug off everything I'd said and go back to his regular life like nothing was happening to his old friend.

I had always wondered why Billy didn't let me live with them after my dad died. I know he promised my dad he would, because my dad told me. When I was about seven, I'd seen a TV show where one of the characters mentioned his father, a policeman like mine, dying when the character was just a child. I asked Dad what would happen to me if he died, because I knew we didn't have any other family. He explained wills to me, and said that he and Billy had both made a will that named the other one as guardian if anything happened. I remember thinking that I'd love to have Jacob as a brother, and then feeling terrible because I didn't mean that I wanted Billy to die. And then _my_ dad died, and no one said anything about the will, and I'd never seen either of them again until I came to live with the Cullens.

But I wasn't nine years old anymore. Once my leg was better, I could take care of myself, and of both of them — Billy and Jacob — if they gave me a home. I knew how to keep a household clean and running smoothly if no one interfered. Two guys living alone probably didn't get to eat very well, and I knew how to make a lot of nice meals. One of my foster families had been a couple with their own chiropractic office, meaning they were almost never home, and they had a housekeeper who let me help her in the kitchen a lot. Anyone could follow a recipe once you knew the basics. I'd really been hoping those people might adopt me, but almost a year went by and they still hadn't said anything about it. I certainly wasn't going to ask, not with Mrs. Bartel's rejection still fresh in my mind. Then one day they told me I was being placed again soon. I never knew why. I figured I must have done something they didn't like, or maybe Social Services decided the home probably wasn't going to be permanent and gave me to someone new to try out. Their ultimate goal was to get kids adopted, after all; they didn't want to be cutting checks every month if they could possibly get you off their backs forever.

My plan just had to work. Nothing had happened right then, but surely Jacob had told Billy what I'd said by now. Billy wouldn't have much of an excuse to say no when there was only a little over a year and a half left until I was eighteen. It wasn't the same as adopting a nine-year-old. Plus, I knew they couldn't have very much money, and my check from the state might be very welcome. So maybe this time, Billy would offer me a home. It wasn't the best situation, and I could never forget how he'd abandoned me after Dad was killed, but at least it was better than being shipped back to Seattle and taking my chances with total strangers.

It would be hard, very hard, to see Edward and the rest in school every day and know that their family had discarded me. My heart twisted painfully just imagining how bad it would be to live in the same town with them and never be one of them again. But this was my hometown, not theirs. I'd been here first, even if circumstances had kept me away for a few years. I wasn't about to slink off to Seattle with my tail between my legs just so they could go back to their happy lives and pretend I never existed.

Jacob would work on his dad until he said yes. I kept coming back to that, working it from every angle. How could he keep from saying something? Everyone had problems, so it was understandable that no one would care when it was just that you were lonely or miserable. But if they heard that you were going to lose your home, they'd have to react, right? No one could listen to your fears of being left homeless and just be like, "Oh, sorry to hear that. But I'm sure it'll all work out for the best." Could they?

Deep down, I knew that most people could be exactly that cold and uncaring, so entirely consumed by their own affairs that no one else's suffering could penetrate. That the stories you read about friends who would go to the ends of the earth to make sure you were safe and healthy were just that: stories. Either that, or those people really _did_ exist, people who would literally give you the shirt off their back . . . but I just wasn't good enough for those ones to want to be friends with me. I honestly couldn't decide which reality would be harder to deal with. I lay like a log in the darkness, listening to Alice's contented breathing, afraid to fall asleep and miss any of the hours I had left in this warm, clean, happy home.

I felt like a house no one had lived in for years, my insides ripped out, waiting for the day they decided to tear down the crumbling, empty shell and throw the rotted pieces in with the rest of the garbage.


	19. Too Many Misunderstandings

**Carlisle**

The day after Emmett came home—for the second time—I worked later than usual and missed dinner. It happened once in a while, though I tried my best to avoid it. Even after I knew everyone would have already finished eating and retreated to the living room, I still watched the clock and fretted over each passing minute, anxious to get home and make up for lost time.

As I pulled into the garage, I caught a glimpse of Jasper huddled on the stone steps which led up the hill to the front walkway. I wondered what could be keeping him outside when everyone else must be in the warm house together. Was he waiting for me? Instead of closing the garage door once I was parked inside, I left it open and ventured outside to see what was up.

The night was frigid cold, and the sky was so clear that the stars shone like diamonds on black velvet. My breath froze in the air in front of me, and I could see Jasper's as well. Quite a lot of it, in fact, surrounding his head like a cloud of wispy white . . .

My heart sank as I drew closer and realized the truth. _Like smoke._

"I thought you quit," I said, nodding toward the cigarette in his hand as I settled onto the step next to my foster son. I wasn't being accusatory; it was more that I realized he must be very agitated to have wanted a cigarette, and hoped he would confide in me. I had been so proud of Jasper when he decided he had to quit, and had been more than happy to supply him with nicotine patches, gradually cutting down the size of the patch a sliver at a time until his body caught up with his determination.

Jasper didn't look up. "It's one of Rose's," he said. Rosalie, following her brother's example as well as his constant nagging, had cut down on her smoking, but she still had one or two cigarettes a day. I felt that Jasper had quit largely to appease Esme and Alice, whereas Rose didn't lend the same weight to their feelings. "I tried to breathe and meditate a little, but it didn't help this time. So I took one out of her desk."

I made my voice light. "I guess if there's any time that called for a smoke, this would be it." I reached out slowly, intending to put my arm around his shoulders, but Jasper flinched away as violently as if I'd swung my fist at his face. The cigarette dropped from his hand and fizzled out in the leftover dusting of snow at his feet. Jasper stared at it wistfully, then reached down with a sigh to pick up the butt and place it in the glass ashtray perched on the stone ledge. Even though the twins were only allowed to smoke outside, we still insisted on ashtrays to contain the mess.

I tried again, and this time Jasper let me put my arm around him and pull him close. He even rested his forehead against my shoulder after a moment.

"What's on your mind, son?" I asked him gently.

He shrugged. "Lots of things."

"Does your hand hurt?"

"Not much. I took a pill a couple hours ago when Esme changed my bandage. It helped when I was doing the finger exercises. It mostly just . . . throbs. And itches." He scratched at the edge of the bandage, which was already starting to look ragged. Esme and I had been helping him change the dressing every morning and right before dinner, bathing the skin in saline and gently massaging it with antibiotic ointment as well as—at my wife's insistence—a blend of essential oils she'd put together. "How long before it's better?" Jasper asked.

"Not very long," I assured him. "We're taking good care of it, and a second-degree burn usually takes only about two to three weeks to heal. We'll get you in for some occupational therapy in a couple of days. Thank God it wasn't a really bad burn." I squeezed him closer to my side. "Though I'm sure it feels bad enough."

Jasper's fingertips protruded from the ends of his bandage, and I covered them with my own hand. It was so cold, and he had no gloves. I was surprised he'd even bothered to put on a jacket; sometimes Jasper forgot to take care of himself properly. I was never sure if he was just absentminded, or if he wanted everyone to think he was too tough to bother dressing warmly. Probably the latter, since he always made sure that Rose and Alice were dressed for the weather and harped on his sister about her eating habits. Maybe Jasper was so busy taking care of everyone else that he didn't have the energy left to look after his own needs.

"Are we ever going back to get the camping stuff?" Jasper asked me, sounding drowsy. We'd have to get inside soon, before he froze. Who knew how long he'd been sitting out here by himself?

I sighed. "I don't know. It's a long trip just to get it and come back. But we can't just leave it there littering the woods. I . . . We'll see how quickly Emmett starts to improve. Maybe we can have a family campout in the spring, when Bella and Emmett are better."

Jasper pulled away and looked at me in surprise. "You mean we're going camping again? After what happened?"

I tried to think how what I was about to say would sound to Jasper. I didn't want him to think I was dismissing what we'd been through like it was nothing. "I don't see why not. We can't let something that was a one-in-a-million chance anyway keep us from an activity we enjoy. And I will be buying a gun for when we camp," I said decisively. "I hate the idea of firearms, and I don't want one in the house, so it'll be in the safe deposit box until we need it. But I think having it along will give us all peace of mind."

Jasper looked away. I squeezed his arm. "Accidents happen, son. What matters is how we handle it when they do. Emmett probably would have died if not for your quick thinking." Jasper tilted his head as though he thought I was exaggerating, but his face flushed a bit at my words, and I think he was pleased.

"We'd better go in. You know Alice doesn't like it when you're outside without a leash."

Jasper had to laugh at that. He picked up his ashtray and stood, and together we went inside and submitted to a pat-down from the warden, who'd been perched impatiently on the stairs all the while. I picked up my girl and squeezed her so hard that she squeaked. Upstairs, I could smell my dinner waiting for me and hear Emmett shouting that 'quirm' was _too_ a word and not to forget his double letter points.

I was home.

* * *

Esme and I had agreed that it was best to wait until the house was empty, or as empty as possible, before we sat down with Bella and told her about the phone call from Detective Yorkie. Whether her reaction was anger or tears, the fewer people in the house, the better. Emmett would be there, of course, and while Jasper technically should have been back at school already, he'd been so keyed up since the accident that it seemed cruel to make him sit still seven hours a day. By next Monday, we hoped to have everyone but Emmett back to a regular school schedule. But even if it meant we couldn't really be alone with her, we couldn't put off telling Bella our news any longer.

Even when I first went to wake her up in the morning, Bella looked like she hadn't slept in about a week. So after Alice, Rose, and Edward had left for school and we'd gotten the kitchen cleaned up, I asked Bella if she'd like to go back upstairs for a little nap. She nodded, looking very relieved, and I carried her upstairs and settled her into bed. I smiled at my girl as I tucked Alice's quilt around her and received a tentative smile in return.

But then she looked past me and saw Esme hovering in the doorway, and everything changed. Bella's body went completely rigid, and she stared down at her legs as my wife closed the door and walked over to stand beside the bed. Bella looked for all the world like an animal which had just spotted its most dangerous predator, and was hoping that if it stayed very, very still, the predator would forget it was there and pass on by. Both hands rested on the bed beside her as though she were bracing herself against the mattress.

Kids are smart, no question about it. Bella knew that Esme and I wouldn't both be in here with her unless it was something serious.

I sat down on the very edge of the bed and ran my fingers through Bella's hair, realizing with a pang of guilt that it had been a long time since I'd sat and talked to her or played with her hair. I talked to all the kids as I tucked them in at night, but only for a couple of minutes; with six of them, bedtime could easily turn into midnight if we let it. I'd _meant_ to sit down alone with Bella and ask her how she was settling in, or if she had any questions for me, but somehow there just hadn't been any time lately. It would be no wonder if poor Bella assumed my coming in here automatically meant bad news, if I couldn't even show her some attention when everything was normal. I did manage to notice that Bella's hair was much sleeker and softer than it had been before the camping trip. Alice must have treated it for her over the weekend. But I'd barely touched her before Bella jerked her head away from my hand and turned her face towards the wall.

I frowned, but her behavior wasn't surprising. She obviously knew something was wrong, so I wasn't about to drag it out and let her worry herself sick. "Bella, sweetie, I'm afraid we have some bad news, and it's not going to be easy for you to hear," I began.

"What do you care if it's easy?" she said, stunning me with the raw hate in her voice.

I moved so I was sitting solidly on the bed and tried to pull Bella onto my lap. Esme, meanwhile, sat down cross-legged facing us. But Bella didn't want to be held.

"No!" she shouted, pushing back against me. "Don't you touch me! Don't you dare touch me ever again!"

"Sweetie, what's wrong?" I asked. "I just want to talk to you."

"I HATE YOU!" she screeched, and my ears rang from the force of it. "I fucking hate your fucking _guts!_" With each word, Bella pounded her little fists against my chest with surprising force. I tried to stop her, to hold her arms still, but she was flailing too wildly for me to get a grip on them. Finally I just reached out and pulled her whole body against mine, crushing her in a hug which left her little wiggle room.

Over Bella's shoulder I saw the door open a crack and Jasper's face peering around the doorframe, his eyes wide and panicked. I mimed drinking from a glass and hoped he would understand. I didn't want Bella to know she had an audience. I wished I had thought to warn the boys before we went upstairs, but who could have seen this coming? We hadn't even _told_ Bella our news yet, and already she was acting as though the world was ending. Jasper disappeared even as Bella let out another shriek into the front of my shirt and tried once again to wriggle free.

"Stop it, Bella. Stop it right this minute," I said, trying not to let my voice tremble. My heart was pounding in my chest, and one look at Esme's horrified expression told me she was as bewildered as I was. "What in the world is the _matter_ with you?"

"You c-came in here to tell me I have to _leave_, and I fucking _hate_ you! Why did you bring me here? Why did you let me see your beautiful house and eat your food and tell me about how we'd go camping and fishing and work in the garden together? Why didn't you just leave me alone?" Bella sobbed into my chest.

"Bella!" Esme cried, but I cut her off.

"We didn't come in here because you're in any trouble, Bella. We came to talk to you about James," I said quickly. Here I had been thinking that our news would be the hardest thing we would have to tell Bella, ever, and all the while she'd been imagining something far worse.

I wasn't hopeful at this point that anything I said was actually going to get through to Bella in her hysteria, but she stilled in my arms, and her muffled wails cut off abruptly, although she continued to gasp and sniffle and literally wrack with nervous energy. For a moment I thought she wasn't going to say anything, but then the reply came: "I don't believe you."

"It's true, sweetie," Esme said softly, a definite tremor in her voice.

"_What_ about James, then?" she asked suspiciously. "Did they find him? Is he in jail?"

I hugged Bella tighter and glanced at Esme, who was still white as a sheet, nervously twisting the edge of Bella's blanket in her hands.

"He passed away, Bella," she whispered. "He's gone."

Bella shook her head furiously. "No. You're lying."

"It's true," I murmured into her hair. "Detective Yorkie called the other day, but Esme and I wanted to tell you together, so we waited until Emmett came back home and the others went back to school. It's why I haven't left for work yet. I'm sorry, sweetie."

"How? He's only eighteen. People don't die that young."

"There was a fire at a ballet studio in Seattle, and he was trapped inside. They're still investigating, but since his stepmother is part owner of the studio, and since they found traces of accelerant, it looks an awful lot like she was trying to destroy it in order to collect the insurance, and bribed or threatened James into setting the actual fire. Either that or he burned it down for revenge. Detective Yorkie spoke with the Seattle detective in charge of the investigation, and those are the theories at this point."

Meanwhile the door inched open and Jasper crept into the room holding a big plastic tumbler of water. I tapped the bedside table and he came over and set down the cup, then stood playing with the edge of his sleeve, staring at the back of Bella's head. Bella herself seemed unaware of his presence. I mouthed "It's okay" even though I wasn't sure it would be okay—all I knew was that Jasper had done all he could bringing in some water. The rest was up to us.

"I didn't want him to die. I really didn't," Bella choked out as Jasper reluctantly retreated to the hallway.

"Of course you didn't," I said, in what I hoped was a soothing voice.

"But if you're feeling some relief, that's normal too," Esme put in. "He hurt you very badly, and now you never have to see him again. I don't think any reasonable person wouldn't feel at least a little relieved at that."

"I feel safer knowing he's gone," Bella whispered, sounding as though she thought she was admitting something scandalous. "Does that make me a bad person?"

"No, baby girl," Esme assured her. "It doesn't. If he were still alive, you'd spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder or wondering if he was out there hurting someone else. And that's a burden that doesn't belong on your shoulders. Only someone who's never been afraid of another person in their life would blame you for feeling relief."

If there was one person who could be counted on to understand how Bella was feeling right now, and what she needed to hear, it was my sensitive wife. She couldn't have missed the parallel between this discussion and the one she and I had had after the death of her first husband. I'd said the same things to her then that she was saying to Bella now. And it seemed to be exactly what Bella needed to hear. Already she was sitting up straighter and wiping away her tears with her hands.

"Here, sweetie. Drink this," I said, handing her the cup of water Jasper had left on the nightstand. "You'll feel much better." Bella didn't seem to care where the cup had come from; she took it from me and drank it down in about five seconds.

"Now . . ." I said, once the contents of the cup had been drained, "would you mind elaborating on the . . . complete and utter meltdown that just occurred?"

Bella's pale face flushed scarlet and she ducked her head so it was almost parallel to the bed. I tried to be gentle when I lifted her chin back up, but Bella pulled away from me.

"You both came in together. What was I supposed to think?" she snapped, the hostility from before returning in full force. "You came and stood over me when you know I can't run away. I know you don't want me anymore. You waited until you got me alone with almost everyone else out of the house so they couldn't hear me cry when you told me I had to leave."

I sighed. "Bella, I thought we'd been over this. You are _not_ leaving this house. I _told_ you — "

Bella cut me off. "That was before the camping trip," she said miserably, scrubbing at her face with her sleeve. "Before you had Emmett and Jasper to take care of, and before my check was late, and before I took the food. _She_ said she was sending me back to Seattle." Bella jerked her head to the side slightly, not really aiming very well at Esme though it was obvious that was her intention.

"Bella!" Esme gasped, horrified. "I _never_ said such a thing! What in the world are you talking about?"

"You were on the phone with Charlotte, and you said you couldn't handle it all, and you'd drive me back to Seattle if you had to but they should have been on top of it."

Though I had not been privy to that exact discussion, I had a fairly good idea what it had been regarding and how my wife was about to respond to Bella's accusation. Still, I couldn't help but cringe at the thought that Bella had overheard those exact words, provided she was remembering them accurately. I could completely understand how easily it could all be misinterpreted.

"Isabella Swan, I did _not_ say I was bringing you back to Seattle to live," Esme said sternly. "What I was talking about was finding you a counselor. The state only has two approved counselors on their list for Forks other than the ones the rest of the kids see, and neither of them are taking new patients. There are a few in Port Angeles, but one of them has scaled back her practice and mostly does phone sessions. Another is _my_ counselor and I feel like that would be unfair to you. The third one is a male, and I was going to ask you if you felt comfortable with a male therapist. If I have to drive you to Seattle, I will, but I felt like they could have given us more options. That's what you heard. And jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion."

"But you screamed at me and called me a thief."

Esme opened her mouth to answer, but I frowned at her and shook my head. "When did this happen, Bella?"

"Saturday. Alice found some food under my bed. I did _not_ steal it!" she insisted. "It was left over from dinner and it was going in the garbage! But Alice tattled and _she_ said she fed me plenty and I didn't need to steal. It's exactly the same thing. _You_ said I could have any food I wanted in this house, and _she_ said I was stealing."

Now, if there's one thing parents learn very quickly, it's that children can and will lie with dexterity in order to play one parent, or teacher, or even babysitter against the other. I suppose it's largely a defense mechanism, since children are often not believed even when they're telling the truth. It can sometimes be next to impossible to tell the truth from the lies. But one look at Esme's expression and I knew Bella's story was at least based in truth. And I felt _furious_.

Esme and I disagreed sometimes when it came to how best to raise our ever-growing family, but never to the point where we couldn't see each other's point of view on something. Esme knew damn well how I was about food, and what had happened to make me that way—that I even, at thirty-three, still sometimes counted the jars in the pantry or compulsively checked the fridge just to reassure myself that we had plenty. She _knew_ how strongly I felt that no one in this home should ever be denied food provided it wasn't junk food, or made to feel guilty for wanting it.

"Am I missing something? Was that all that happened?" I asked carefully. I would never want to be unfair to either Bella _or_ my wife, but there were few things I could say that wouldn't sound like I was automatically siding with one or the other.

Esme spoke up. "Bella, I did _not_ say that you were a thief. I said . . . I think what I said was that there's always plenty at mealtimes and you can have anything you want from the fridge, so why would you need to steal? And why _would_ you, Bella? Have I ever said you couldn't have anything you wanted to eat? You're not supposed to have candy or junk, but it's not even like I've had to stop you from having any since you got here. What on earth were you doing hiding leftovers from dinner under the bed?" Esme's voice was rising, and I reached up to put my finger to my lips. Her getting upset would only make Bella more upset as a result.

"You were going to throw it _away!_" Bella cried, her voice breaking. "All that good food wasted. Do you know what I would have given for that food when I was sharing peanut-butter sandwiches with James, or when Janice Nylund labeled everything in the house with their name except the Cheerios and bread? And your kids just throw away, like, half their meals like it's nothing!"

Now, I felt, we were getting to the heart of the matter. "Baby, when you've been hungry, it's hard to see other people waste food," I said soothingly, resting my chin on her head. "But we don't throw it away wholesale here. There are always going to be bits left over from dinner. If you really feel that strongly about it, we can put the little bits in a container for you from now on, and you can have it for a snack the next day. _In the fridge,_ not under the bed where it'll rot and attract bugs. But there's nothing to be done about it when someone doesn't finish their chicken leg and the rest goes in the garbage. That's just life. It's not healthy to keep eating once you're full."

"I just didn't want all that food wasted. I wasn't stealing. How is that stealing?" Bella moaned.

"'Steal' wasn't the right word, sweetie. I can see that now," Esme said, stroking Bella's cast foot. "I'm sorry I said that. If I'd had time to think, I wouldn't have. But . . . try to see where I'm coming from. I try very hard to make sure we all have plenty of healthy food, and then I see food being hoarded under the bed like I've been making you live on bread and water. It may not be stealing, but when you're allowed to eat mostly what you want and then you sneak some upstairs and hide it anyway, that's not normal behavior. You _don't_ need to sneak. Not in this house."

"But Friday you were yelling about my check being late. So why would I feel safe taking food? You already complained I was costing too much."

"When did I ever say that? I don't remember anything like that happening on Friday. Or any other day, for that matter."

"You didn't say it. Carlisle did, but you didn't contradict him," Bella said, causing my stomach to clench. What could I have said? Her check _had_ been late, and still was late, but that was to be expected. She'd only been with us for a month. The first check always took until quarter of never.

"Sweetie, what did I say, exactly? I don't remember, either, so that makes two of us," I said.

"You . . . I was going by your study to get to the bathroom. You said . . . I think it went, 'Bella will be twenty-five before we ever see a check from them, but when they say jump, we're supposed to ask how high.'"

I sighed. "Bella, I was very overwhelmed just then. Things were happening so fast, and there was so much to handle and so little cooperation from Douches . . . er, the state. I was sharing that with Esme so she could talk me through it. Something it wouldn't hurt you to learn how to do, I might add." I admit that I was feeling rather irritated with Bella right then. Was there nothing we could say or do that was not subject to misinterpretation and suspicion from her? Yet I knew I was being unfair even as I tried valiantly to squelch the annoyance.

"It's not my fault the check is late," Bella said in a small voice.

"Of course it isn't your fault!" I said quickly, giving her an extra-hard squeeze. "It's never your fault when these things happen. I would never think that. Sweetie, we'd take care of you for free if the system wasn't set up to provide us with a stipend. It's never about the money; we have plenty, thank goodness. But I'm sure you understand that when they're so cavalier about their own obligations but expect us to scramble to meet their ridiculous deadlines, we would get a little angry, no?"

"I guess."

"It's not about you. It could have been anyone's check, or something else that doesn't have to do with money. We've had them send us time-sensitive material that wasn't even posted until after the date it had to be back to them. Remember last winter with the ice storm?" I said to Esme over Bella's head.

Esme rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "They sent us a letter saying we needed to submit an expense report by a certain date," she said to Bella. "There'd just been a major ice storm and all government offices were closed for three days. Not only was the date at the top of the letter _during _that three-day period, but the due date was two days later, and we didn't even get it for another week. Presorted, no postmark, God only knows when it really was mailed. So not only did they lie about the date it was written, but even if they'd sent it on that date it still would have been too late."

"The system's a mess, Bella," I said. "It's a giant clusterf—well, it's a mess, we'll leave it at that. There's no way to fix it, and most of the time we just bite our tongues and deal. Sometimes we snap. I'm sorry, baby. It's not your fault."

Bella, who was unquestionably a mess of nerves by now, dissolved into tears again, crying and coughing so hard that I could barely make out what she was saying. All I managed to decipher was "wanted the curtains" and "sofa" and "soaking."

"What, love?" I murmured softly, rubbing Bella's back in a gentle circular motion. "What are you saying? Just settle down a bit and tell me."

It took a few moments before Bella was able to talk coherently, but she seemed to be responding to my voice, so I kept murmuring to her how much I loved her, over and over again. Esme, meanwhile, moved up the bed until we were each holding Bella from one side. When Alice came into our room sometimes after she'd had a nightmare, she said it made her feel safe when we held her between us, and she usually dropped right off to sleep soon afterward, confident in our ability to protect her. I could only hope that Bella would find that same comfort. And even though it took almost another ten minutes for her to settle, it seemed she had.

"I love the house," Bella finally said, sniffling. "I love the couches everywhere and the pretty curtains. It's always clean and warm. I didn't want to leeeeeeeeeeave." Her voice went up in pitch at the end until I was afraid we were going to end up right back where we'd started, and I moved quickly to calm her down.

"Shhhhh, of course you didn't," I murmured, holding her close. "Of course. It's a good home. A warm, safe—" I felt a pang of guilt as I thought of my bandaged sons. "Safe, _happy_ home, and you're not _leaving_ it, Bella, do you understand that?"

She only keened louder. I felt discouraged at first, wondering what I could say that might make her feel better, but then I started to think how long Bella must have been holding in these fears of abandonment. Coming to live with us hadn't magically erased years of uncertainty about her place in the world, and she'd spent a tortured week thinking she was going to be shipped back to Seattle any second, collecting more and more 'evidence' along the way to support that theory. She wasn't going to feel better until every last bit of that worked its way out of her somehow, either through tears or some kind of physical activity. And given her casted leg and still-tender ribs, tears it was.

"You know what I think?" I murmured to Bella. "I think someone needs a frozen drink and a long soak in the Jacuzzi." The idea came out of nowhere, but it made perfect sense. Bella needed something to soothe her shattered nerves, and what better way? Some candles, Esme's special bath oils, and a cold fruit drink would be just the ticket. And, of course, the nap she'd originally been promised.

"What about my leg?" Bella asked.

"You can prop it up on the edge of the Jacuzzi. The seat is high enough that you can do that." Never mind how Esme and I found that out. "You can relax in there for a while, and then you can take your nap before lunch."

By that time, I could have used a nap myself.

* * *

When I came downstairs a little later, Emmett and Jasper were sitting as still as statutes on one of the sofas. The TV was off, and Jasper's history book lay closed on the coffee table. Both boys looked at me warily as I walked into the room.

"Your sister's had a very rough morning," I said without preamble. "She's taking a bath, and then she might take a nap. When she does come downstairs, I need you to act like nothing's out of the ordinary. Just make sure you talk to her and let her feel safe."

"What happened, Dad?" Emmett asked.

I sighed. There really wasn't any point in keeping the news a secret, and it would help if they understood what led up to this. "The boy she was seeing before she came to live with us—the one who put her in the hospital—is dead. But," I added, seeing that Emmett was about to interrupt, "the real problem was that Bella thought we were about to throw her out. She misread a lot of signs this past week, and that's why the big explosion. So if you want to help her, and I know you will, you'll talk to her like normal and make her feel included. If you act weird, she's just going to go back to thinking it's almost over."

Jasper was staring down at his hands and picking at his bandage. I felt for him, knowing how scared he got whenever there was an argument in the house. Bella's meltdown had to have shattered his nerves to pieces. I gave his hair a tousle as I went by.

"It's okay, son. It was good of you to come and make sure Bella was safe." Scared as he must have been, Jasper's first thought had been to protect his foster sister, and that made me very proud. I think some of that must have been evident in my voice, because Jasper's shoulders, which had been hunched up around his ears, visibly relaxed, and he sat up a little straighter. "You're both good at being big brothers when you're not teasing the life out of the girls. So, do that today. Okay?"

Emmett nodded. "Sure, Dad. I hope she feels better after she wakes up."

I hoped so, too.

* * *

Bella stayed in the Jacuzzi for about forty-five minutes, and Esme reported that she was out like a light soon afterward. When I walked into the girls' bedroom an hour later to wake her up, Jasper was sitting on the edge of the bed and Bella was propped up against the pillows. I felt such a warm rush of pride and affection for my son as I saw that he had The Box open on the bed next to Bella.

The Box was a decorative storage container that Jasper had filled with small gifts — novelty pens, interesting stones he'd picked up when we went hiking together, a couple of Beanie Babies, and various trinkets of the Zen-Garden-in-a-Box variety. He added to it periodically and brought out The Box whenever Rosalie or Alice had a particularly bad day, letting them select one item from among the contents to cheer them up. He'd even offered it to Esme once, after he found her crying on the anniversary of the day we lost our baby son. As far as I knew, he'd only ever offered it to the girls, although that could simply have been because Edward and Emmett rarely have bad days. Now Jasper was including his newest sister in the tradition.

It was exactly this type of behavior from Jasper which made dealing with his occasional outbursts possible. I had said before that he wasn't a vicious boy, only scared and temperamental. He was far more sensitive to emotion than anyone I'd ever known, and I had come to understand that left unchecked, it tended to build up inside him until the tiniest incident could trigger an emotional flash flood. That was why I'd started him and Rose on tennis, and advised him to use the strenuous activity to vent his anger and fear. And it worked . . . when he was able to play regularly, which wasn't always the case. In fact, the incident with Kevin Meehan several weeks prior had followed a long string of days when something was always preventing Jasper from hitting the courts at the rec center.

I knew Jasper heard me coming up behind him because he turned his head slightly, so I didn't bother saying anything right away. I just came up so my hip was about level with his shoulder as he sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to pull him gently against my side.

Bella wasn't looking at me. Her attention seemed to be fixed on the tiny patterned box she held in her hand, but on closer inspection, I could see that her movements were unfocused and she was having trouble keeping the box steady.

"What you got there, sweetie?" I asked.

Bella turned the box around and flipped open the lid. Inside were two cloisonné balls with a white-flowered pattern. Baoding balls, good for stress relief and exercising the hands. "Good choice. I was actually going to get Jasper a set when his bandage comes off."

Bella picked up one of the balls and began rolling it against her palm. It chimed softly with each slight movement. "How come you're not at work?" she asked me.

I leaned over and tucked some stray bangs behind Bella's ear. "You're more important," I told her.

Far from being reassured, Bella seemed to grow more agitated by my response. "You can't miss work because of me! What if they fire you?" she said anxiously.

Jasper spoke up. "I'll take care of Bella. We'll be fine."

"They're not going to fire me, sweetie. Don't you worry one bit," I said soothingly. "If you're comfortable having Jasper look after you, I'll go in for the rest of the day, but if you need me, I'll stay." What I didn't say, and never would say out loud, was that I thought Bella might be afraid to stay here with Esme.

Bella looked at Jasper. I couldn't see his expression, but she must have found it reassuring, because Bella looked up at me and nodded. "I'm fine. I'm . . . I'm sorry I made such a fuss today," she added shyly. "I thought some pretty stupid things."

"Now you're being ridiculous," I chided her. "Your feelings aren't stupid. There's been a lot of . . . of miscommunication this week, and a lot of it could have been avoided if we'd just had time to talk more. You and I are going to sit down and catch up tomorrow, okay? So why don't you start thinking of things you need to ask me, and write them down if you're afraid you'll forget."

Bella nodded. "Okay."

I smiled at her and ruffled Jasper's hair. "Okay, then. I'll be back for dinner, I hope. I know you'll take care of my girl." That last part I directed at Jasper, and his expression was serious as he nodded at me. I wasn't exactly leaving on a quest fraught with danger and entrusting him with my firstborn, but Jasper would take his job as Bella's 'babysitter' as seriously as if that were truly the case. One more reason that I trusted him more than common sense indicated I probably should.

Thus reassured, I headed down the hall to change into my work clothes. In our bedroom, I found Esme curled up on the chaise lounge, sobbing into a throw pillow. My first instinct, of course, was to comfort my distraught wife, but then I remembered how badly she'd scared Bella and stubbornly refused to give in.

"I'm leaving for work now," I said evenly. "I should be home for dinner. Do you suppose you can make it that long without crippling anyone else's self-esteem?"

"Don't," Esme whispered.

I felt a twinge of guilt for harping like this when God knew I'd done my share of speaking before I thought. But I also resented having to feel guilty when Esme _knew_, then and now, that this was the one issue guaranteed to trigger me. I went far out of my way to avoid bringing memories of her first husband to the surface. Was it really so much to ask that she respect my stance on food?

I crossed the room to the closet and chose a suit from the clothes bar. "You honestly feel you handled that appropriately, then?" I said as I began to take off my sweats.

"You weren't there, Carlisle. You didn't see all those containers. After all we've tried to give her, she still had to sneak around and hide food from us. You can't imagine how that felt. It's like she was mocking how hard we try to give the kids a good home."

"Is that how you think of me?" I asked. "When I keep granola bars in the nightstand, or buy extra groceries when there's a sale, you feel like I'm insulting your cooking and saying you're a terrible wife?"

"God, Carlisle, I don't think that. I just . . . it would be different if it had been a few packaged snacks in her dresser." I watched Esme in the mirror as I put on my tie, saw her twisting her hands in the lace throw she'd knitted. "But she was hoarding leftover perishables like we were making her live on scraps. Like we count the food and the only way she can get enough is to steal."

"Well, you certainly showed her how silly _that_ was, now didn't you?" I said caustically. "Jesus Christ, Esme. She's only a little girl. You could have been a little more patient."

"Aren't you just the perfect parent. The kids can always count on you to swoop in and save them from Stepmonster." Esme was obviously trying for the same level of sarcasm, but her voice trembled and it only came out sounding pathetic.

I sighed. "I never claimed to be perfect. I've made my share of mistakes, too. But when I found out how bad Bella felt about the Gameboy, I knew I'd have to work harder with her for a while. And she obviously has some serious fears around food that we're going to need to work on. Just realize that it's going to take a long time to earn her trust back."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil."

Disgusted, I grabbed my wallet and keys from the nightstand and strode out into the hallway, intending to say goodbye to the kids and then leave for work. But before I even reached the stairs, I turned back. I was still upset with my wife, but I couldn't leave it like this. Even if she was partly responsible for this argument, I loved her too much to let something like this strain our relationship.

The chaise was empty now, and the bathroom door was shut, light spilling out from the crack under the door. I stood undecided for a moment, hearing nothing but silence from inside the bathroom. I tapped lightly on the door, but there was no response.

"Esme." Nothing.

"Esme, you know I'm more sensitive about food issues than anything else. I probably wouldn't have reacted like this if it were something else." I waited, then tried again. "I guess I can see why you felt Bella was saying you weren't taking care of her. It's hard for me to see it, but I can if I try. I think you can cut me some slack, too."

For a long moment, there was no reply, and I almost gave up and left. But then, very faintly, I heard Esme say, "Potato wedges tonight?"

I smiled. Esme's oven-baked potato wedges were one of my favorite recipes. It was her way of extending an olive branch, and I gladly took it. We would work through this. We always did.

"I love you," I said, half under my breath, wondering if she'd heard.

"I know. I love you, too."

"I love you more." And I did. I always would.


	20. The Light of My Whole Life

**Esme**

"I love you more."

I didn't answer. I hugged my knees tighter, eyes fixated on the doorknob, terrified that it might start to turn. The door was locked, of course. But locks can be broken. And it's worse if you tried to hide.

I was ashamed of myself for thinking like that, but I didn't have any control over it. I hated when Carlisle and I fought. I always got so frightened, and then resented that I had to feel that way. I was an adult. I shouldn't have to feel afraid of my own husband.

Carlisle hesitated a moment outside the bathroom door, but then I heard his footsteps retreating towards the hall. I hadn't been holding my breath, exactly, but when I'm upset I tend to take only the slightest breaths. Now that I was alone again, my chest started to heave as my lungs tried to take in too much air at once.

It had been a terrible morning. We'd known it might be tough because of the news we had for Bella—there was no way to know how she would handle hearing that her ex-boyfriend was dead. On the one hand, he'd beaten her so badly that she'd needed to be hospitalized and now walked with crutches. On the other hand, he was (I assumed) her first love. Being hurt by someone didn't completely erase the memories of better times. I certainly knew _that._ And I thought I'd been prepared. I thought I knew all the ways Bella could possibly react.

I'd been wrong. So had Carlisle. We'd had absolutely no idea what we were walking into. And _I'd_ had no idea that something I'd said in a moment of frustration five days earlier was about to come back and bite me in the behind.

I honestly hadn't known the impact of what I'd said to Bella when I found the food hidden under her bed. I was angry and frustrated, and of course I knew I wasn't handling the situation well even as it was happening. But I really hadn't meant to call Bella a thief. Yes, telling someone they don't need to steal food is basically the same thing, but it hadn't _felt_ like the same thing at all. I shouldn't have been so impatient with her, no matter what I actually said.

I'd messed up, and I'd known it. Under normal circumstances, I'd have apologized to Bella for losing my temper. One thing I'm not is one of those parents who thinks she doesn't have to admit her mistakes _because_ she's the parent. But it was just past eight the next morning when Edward called to say they were en route to the hospital with Emmett. I had only just gotten up, and then things went all to hell for the next few days and completely pushed the incident from my mind. And I'd had no idea she felt so badly over it to begin with. I'm not stupid, but I just tend to assume that other people are less obsessive than I am and don't stew over things.

I was horrified when Bella recounted the incident for Carlisle—partly it was sadness that I'd caused her so much pain, and partly it was fear that Carlisle would be angry, especially since she told him her interpretation of the conversation instead of what I'd actually said. Maybe the two weren't so far apart, at that.

I know how sensitive Carlisle is about food, and why, and would never intentionally bring back his memories of being denied enough to eat. I wouldn't do that to any of my family. Not by design. But I'd done it by accident, and in hindsight it was really obvious that I could have handled the whole thing so much better.

I wanted to curl up in bed and try to think about everything. But I knew that wasn't going to be possible. I had three injured children downstairs who needed me to be a parent right now. I had to start on the soup I was planning to make for lunch. Emmett had had a dose of his pain meds at breakfast, but that was a few hours ago and he might need more. I'd wrapped Jasper's hand after he showered, but maybe he needed an ice pack. And Jasper needed to be prompted to do stuff like that. He would take it and use it if I handed it to him directly, but would never go and take one for himself.

And Bella? Well, she'd had some fruit while soaking in the Jacuzzi, and her injuries weren't recent enough that she usually needed medicine to manage the pain. But what was she doing right now? Was she still asleep, or had Carlisle woken her? He wasn't in favor of long naps because they could mess with our usual sleep schedule. I'd have to get her up if she wasn't already.

I also had to worry about dinner at some point, plus the extra task of making the oven-roasted herbed potato wedges I'd promised my husband, hoping he'd be placated by the gesture. Also, in case Carlisle was still cranky later, it would be best to have dinner ready right when he came in the door, which was usually a little past six.

I wished desperately for someone to talk to. Normally when I felt sad or scared, I had the comfort of knowing that Carlisle would be home later and I could talk to him before we went to sleep. My husband was an extraordinarily compassionate man, and he always knew how to make me feel safe and loved. He had the same gift with our children. But this time I couldn't talk with him because he _was_ the problem.

I could say unequivocally that there was no one in the world as sweet and kind and wonderful as my husband. But even this sweet kind wonderful man terrified the life out of me sometimes.

Carlisle didn't know that I was sometimes afraid of him. He'd probably be horrified if he knew. He'd never given me a specific reason to feel afraid. We had our arguments, but he never yelled or moved too close or did anything that a normal woman would find intimidating. Almost anyone might scoff at me for harboring this secret fear.

_He_ might scoff. That was the worst part. This man was my life partner, and I should be able to share everything with him. You were supposed to be able to tell someone you loved that they'd hurt you or frightened you and have them feel genuinely sympathetic and want to avoid doing that again. But when had it ever been that way for me? When had anyone ever heard that they hurt me and _not_ twisted the knife in further by denying it, or jeering at me, or pointing out all the reasons I'd deserved what I got?

I didn't think Carlisle was like that, not really. He wasn't perfect. But had he ever diminished me like that? I would think I'd remember. But then again, had I ever really taken the risk and told him I was hurt, or had I just let it go until our tempers cooled and things went back to normal by themselves?

I didn't know. I just didn't know, and I was tired of sitting locked in the bathroom like a cornered animal. Carlisle had to be long gone by now. I got to my feet with a sigh, wincing as my right ankle started to burn from being woken up, and hobbled over to unlock the door I'd used to shut out my husband.

* * *

All three of the kids were watching a movie in the living room. Emmett was lying awkwardly on his left side, since he couldn't sit comfortably on his injured leg. He took up one side of the U-shaped sectional sofa, and Bella and Jasper sat very close to each other in the center section. Jasper tended to drift apart from everyone else, except Alice, so that was a little jarring. It almost seemed like he was hovering protectively over Bella.

"Hey, sweeties," I said softly, standing behind the couch and stroking Jasper's mess of blond hair. "Emmett, hon, do you need another pill?"

"Yeah, I kinda do. The other one's wearing off," Emmett replied drowsily.

"Okay. How about you, baby?" I said, tilting Jasper's face back just a little. "Do you want a half dose until lunch?"

"I'm fine."

I shouldn't have asked. It would have been better just to hand him the pill when I brought Emmett's. He'd most likely take it if it was just given to him. Now I could either take Jasper's word that he was fine, or hand him the half pill anyway and basically tell him that I wasn't going to listen to him.

I brought Emmett a pill and a glass of juice and helped him prop himself up long enough to swallow it. "I'm going to start lunch, kids. Call me if you need to get up, Em." I gave him a stern look so he'd know I meant business. Emmett would insist on fumbling around by himself even if it meant ripping open his stitches, and I wasn't having any of that.

I started for the kitchen. Today was Jasper's day to be kitchen assistant, and he dutifully hopped up off the couch and followed me in. "No, you watch your movie, sweetie," I told him. "You can help later with dinner."

Jasper stood there awkwardly. "Um . . . no, it's okay, I could help. I don't care about the movie."

Poor thing. He always seemed to suspect that he was being set up. I turned and took his face in my hands. "It's just soup. Go enjoy the movie."

"But there's fr—" he started.

"Shush." I wanted him to enjoy his movie without having to hop up and chop fruit, but I also wanted to be by myself right now. I smiled at him so he wouldn't take the shush too seriously. "Go on. Have fun," I said, giving him a playful shove back towards the couch. Jasper smiled back at me and finally went back to join Bella and Emmett.

In the kitchen, I busied myself gathering celery, carrots, and onions and all my tools: cutting board, peeler, knife, waste bowl, onion chopper. The chopper needed a lot of force to close the lid and made an ungodly loud bang. I'd have to warn the kids first and have them pause the movie for a couple minutes.

Once I had my veggies all peeled and ready to chop, my mind started up again with its worrying chatter now that it wasn't busy telling me what I needed for my soup. It was my mother's chatter, actually, telling me what a terrible wife I was.

_How many women do you know who get to sit home all day instead of working?_

_I find it hard to believe you because you've always been like this, Esme. Everything always had to be about you. Like when you broke your leg and cried because we left you alone at the hospital. You always thought you were being mistreated. Now you're complaining about Charles. You've always complained about the men who put a roof over your head and clothes on your back._

_You want to go to _college? I_ didn't go to college. Neither did your father. He worked hard all his life so I could have you girls. And you can bet I had dinner on the table every night when he walked in the door._

Ten years later, estranged from my parents and married to an amazing man, I was still afraid to test his temper further by making him wait for dinner after coming home.

My throat tightened when I remembered Carlisle's harsh words. _Do you think you can make it that long without crippling anyone else's self-esteem?_ How could he have said that to me? He would never say something like that to the kids. He kept his temper perfectly around them, lest God forbid anyone's feelings were hurt. But my feelings didn't matter.

No, that wasn't fair. He cared for me very much. Sometimes Carlisle actually took my breath away with how wonderfully he treated me. I had never imagined before I met him that there could ever be such an amazing man. Or if one existed, he certainly wouldn't want _me._ But he did exist, and now he was mine.

Except that deep down, I was still afraid that someday he would figure out he'd made a mistake. And leave me.

_He's supposed to be your equal. Marriage is a partnership._

_What equal? He's a brilliant doctor. You decorate houses._

_You have lots of talents. He knew what he was getting, and he says he loves you._

_He wanted children. He thought you'd be the mother for them that he needed. Lots of women these days don't want kids. That's why he married you._

_If he could do better, then who, exactly? No one could love him as much as you do._

_He's not going to leave you over one little argument._

By this time my chest was heaving with sobs I was trying desperately not to let escape. I hoped the TV was loud enough so the kids wouldn't hear me. I felt like a covered pot ready to boil over any second. I let out a few soft wheezes and was just about ready to make a run for the downstairs bathroom so I could cry into a folded towel for a few moments when someone spoke up behind me.

"Ma'am?"

The knife slipped and I ended up with a very cockeyed slice of celery. I'd never even known Jasper was in the kitchen with me until he was practically at my elbow.

"What is it, sweetie?" I said, softly so my voice wouldn't tremble. I laid down the knife and wiped my hands on my dish towel. "And you know you can call me Esme."

I should have smiled a little, because I think he thought I was correcting him. Jasper had actually been looking at my face, for once, but now his gaze dropped. I was so sorry for him. I just couldn't do anything right anymore.

"Jasper," I said, reaching over and pulling him close, "I'm sorry. It doesn't matter; whatever you're comfortable with. What did you want to ask me?"

"If you're okay," he whispered without looking up.

I drew back a bit. I guess I hadn't been as quiet as I thought. Then again, Jasper was also the human barometer when it came to how people were feeling. "I . . . I'm a little upset," I admitted. "I guess we're all a little rattled from this morning."

Jasper looked dubious. I felt like he knew I wasn't being completely honest. Sometimes it was as though he could read my mind. He shifted from foot to foot. "Can I help with anything?" he asked.

"Well . . ." I hedged, unsure what I should do. Jasper wanted to help. I knew him well enough to know that he would feel rejected if I told him I was fine. Besides, I _wasn't_ fine. I was distracted and unfocused. If I could only lie down for just a little while . . . "Well, honey, I think if I could just lie down for half an hour or so, I'd feel a lot better. Could you just keep an eye on Bella and Emmett for that long? Make sure they have something to drink, and call me if either of them needs anything more?"

Jasper was nodding before I was even finished, eager to please as always. I felt so guilty for asking him to take over. _I_ was the parent here. It was my responsibility to take care of all the kids, including him. But . . . all I was asking him to do was sit with them, which he'd have done anyway, and make sure they had drinks. That wasn't so very bad, was it? I'd be a lot more use to everyone if I had a little rest. "Oh, Jasper, thank you. I'm so sorry to leave you, but I just can't think straight," I said apologetically. "I'll be down in a little while. But you call me if anyone needs something more than a drink or a piece of fruit, okay?"

Jasper said he would, but the problem with him was that he would never admit there was something he couldn't handle. I stared at him for a moment, feeling so bad for him again. Would Jasper ever really trust any of us? We'd never given him a reason not to, not that I knew of, yet he was still so wary all the time, afraid to ask for anything and trying so hard to take up as little space as possible. I knew what that felt like. I'd been invisible once. And if it weren't for Carlisle, I still would be.

If I existed at all.

* * *

Upstairs, I closed the blinds so that even the weak gray light from outside was shut out. I climbed into bed and set the little timer on my bedside table for thirty minutes. Finally I put on my sleep mask and wriggled around until the covers were tucked underneath both shoulders and I was swaddled comfortably.

I could smell him on our sheets—that clean, wonderful scent of his. It had always made me feel safe. But now it just made me so sad. What would I ever do without him? He was the light of my whole life.

I hadn't been able to focus when I wasn't by myself. Now I was _too_ alone, and the silence was frightening to me when I was feeling so uncertain about everything. I doubted I'd be able to fall asleep, or at least not right away; it might be different if I had a couple of hours, but I had to get back and finish lunch soon. I felt so overwhelmed all of a sudden that I could have screamed, or smashed something. But I was afraid the kids would hear me, and the last thing I wanted was to scare them with a temper tantrum.

The clock said eleven. The soup took almost an hour to simmer, so at this point we wouldn't eat until one or later. That wasn't really unreasonable for lunchtime, but I still felt like I should just give up the idea of a nap and finish my soup. I was so drowsy and shaky, and the thought of getting up again made me want to cry. But if I didn't get to sleep, I'd have wasted all this time and been late with lunch for nothing. I slammed my fists against the mattress. There just wasn't enough _time_ to get everything done. There never was.

Carlisle would be home around six. I felt sick. I wanted him to come home so that I could stop worrying, but at the same time, I dreaded how he might act when he came in the door. Would he greet me with kisses like usual, or be angry and cold?

My eyes filled with tears again. I was thirty-two years old, and I still watched the clock like a child, afraid of the moment when the man of the house came home. I wasn't his equal, and I never would be. Deep down, I was always fearful of making a mistake and being punished for it. And when Bella had hidden food, I think that subconsciously I'd been afraid that Carlisle would find out and think I hadn't been taking care of her. I'd automatically seen it as an attack on my nurturing skills, instead of a young girl's uncontrollable urge to hoard, and unleashed my pent-up fear on a helpless child.

I was a terrible mother.

I rolled over on my stomach and pressed my face into the sheets. I had _thought_ I was taking such good care of Bella. Every morning, I helped her get set up for her shower, then blow-dried her pretty hair because I knew it strained her ribs if she had to lift her arms. I gave her her medicine right on schedule and fixed healthy snacks so she could put on some weight. And I'd thought that Bella was full and warm and happy. I just couldn't believe it when Alice told me there were containers of perishable food under her bed.

I wanted to be a good mother. I wanted our home to be a sanctuary where everyone felt safe and loved. But obviously I wasn't doing a very good job if any of my kids felt they had to hide food. Was I one of those parents that all the kids secretly hated and complained about amongst themselves? Did Carlisle regret rushing to start a family with me and wish he'd held out for someone as compassionate and loving as he was?

I could never be just like him. I was too damaged. As hard as I tried to be as good a person as my husband, it would always be, at best, a shoddy façade. I couldn't be good like him because I was too afraid of being hurt again. I did love our kids. But he had a special gift with them. He was just so full of love that everyone around him could feel it. He deserved someone better. Someone who didn't repay his sunshine with irrational fear and lose her patience with the children they were trying to help heal. He needed a partner, not another child to fix.

I couldn't even _give_ him a child. At least, not one healthy enough to live more than a few days.

I was a failure on every level.

* * *

When I started to prepare dinner around four and Jasper once again appeared at my elbow, this time I gave him a job to do instead of sending him back to the living room. It was one of his chores today, after all, and I would be making food for eight instead of four. I knew Jasper would have trouble peeling the potatoes, though, so I had him mix up the glaze while I did the peeling and then gave the potatoes to him to slice into wedges. But before we started, I took the ginger lemonade I'd made out of the fridge and set a glass of it in front of him to sip while he was working. Jasper's face lit up when he saw it. It was his favorite treat.

I stood a little behind my boy and gave him a hug around the shoulders. "Thank you so much for making lunch, Jasper. I didn't expect that of you, but it just made my day." After my 'nap' that morning, which was really just fifteen minutes or so of tossing around restlessly and then a very brief doze, I'd come back down to the kitchen feeling tired and depressed. I opened the fridge, intending to pick up where I'd left off on lunch preparations.

But right there on the middle shelf was a huge bowl of freshly made fruit salad, complete with the starfruit I'd hidden at the back of the cheese drawer. I closed the door and looked over at the stove; on the back burner sat a simmering stockpot. Even though there wasn't a trace of any food left out, nor a single utensil on the counter or in the sink, I knew it was the vegetable soup I'd been working on before I went upstairs. In just over half an hour, while I'd been tossing in bed, Jasper had gone and made lunch, then cleaned up the whole kitchen. That dear, sweet boy.

Even though it had been such a relief to come down and find that I wouldn't be late with lunch after all, it wasn't a huge surprise. Jasper really liked to help me in the kitchen. Way back when the twins first came to live with us, he'd basically just done the little chores I gave him—chopping vegetables, fetching things from the pantry, and so on—without talking much. But as time went on, he started to ask me questions, like how I knew how long to cook meat, what the point of sautéing was, why I used different types of measuring cups for liquids and solids. I was happy to share, but I wondered why he was so interested. Not too many teenage boys care about cooking.

I asked him why once, and the answer just about broke my heart. Jasper said that soon he'd be on his own and would have to be able to take care of himself and his sister, and no one else had ever bothered to tell him these things. Imagine a teenager who _wanted_ to be told how to take care of a house, and plan balanced meals, because he saw his eighteenth birthday as the day he was cut loose without anyone to guide him.

That very night I'd spoken to Carlisle about discussing an eventual adoption with the twins. It was a little early, since they had only been there perhaps two months at the time and only after six could we start the process. But I couldn't stand the thought of either of them going one more day being afraid of losing their home.

I saw the tips of Jasper's ears turning pink at my praise, so I gave him one more quick squeeze and moved away. Jasper liked to be appreciated, but like most boys was embarrassed easily by narmy scenes.

Dinner tonight was easier than usual, since the menu was spaghetti (homemade, but frozen) and garlic bread. Since Jasper was handling the potatoes, I mixed up the garlic spread and sliced the loaf of Italian bread while the sauce slowly heated up. Edward was upstairs practicing piano, which could be heard faintly even down here. The girls and Emmett were in the living room doing homework. I had a CD of baroque music playing very softly while we cooked, low enough that we could talk if we wanted to and providing a nice buffer.

Since he'd been home for almost a week, there really wasn't much we could catch up on, but conversation with Jasper was never dull if you got him started on history. He sped through history books faster than some people go through novels, everything from ancient Egypt to modern-day Afghanistan. I'd never known anyone of any age who loved a subject more.

I had just dumped the noodles (rigatoni, which would be easier for Emmett to scoop up than regular spaghetti) into the colanders in the sink and was checking the sauce when I heard the basement door open.

"Daddy's home!" Alice shrieked, pelting for the basement stairs like a bat out of hell. Edward's playing cut off abruptly, and a moment later I heard his much quieter footsteps coming downstairs.

While Carlisle gave the kids their hugs, I stood there stirring my sauce and hoping, so hard, that he wouldn't still be angry. When I felt his arms encircling my waist I could have cried with relief, and I turned my head to the side to nuzzle his shoulder. He wasn't mad at me. Thank God. "Everything's ready when you are," I said, hoping my voice wasn't shaking. Carlisle squeezed me a little higher up, and I giggled.

"Let me change really quick and I'll be right down," he promised, snatching a potato wedge out of the serving dish on the counter as he left. He popped it in his mouth and pretended to swoon in the doorway. I laughed, ostensibly at his antics, but really it was built-up nerves. I was just so relieved that things weren't stiff between us.

I relaxed a little more during dinner as Alice and Edward filled everyone in on the latest school news. Alice told Emmett that his coach had stopped her in the hall and asked after him.

"I told him you died, and then he asked why I was back in school so soon and I said life goes on," Alice said matter-of-factly as she chewed on a crust of garlic bread.

"Alice, honestly. You're going to get in trouble someday," I chided her, even though Emmett was grinning.

Alice shrugged. "He looked like someone _had_ died. I felt weird." That was Alice for you. She didn't do serious very well. "But he says he's sorry you won't get to play this year since it's your last year. He wants you to go talk to him when you get back."

Emmett had always liked and respected Coach Beck, and from what Carlisle had told me, Em was thinking seriously about a career in physical education because of this man. It was terrible that he'd lost his chance to play sports for the rest of his senior year. But thank goodness he'd been thinking about his future beyond professional sports.

I made a mental note to call Coach Beck tomorrow myself. Emmett wouldn't be back for a while yet, and I needed to find out what would happen going forward. The coach should know the next steps when it came to notifying WSU about Emmett's injuries. It would be better to know for sure rather than speculating.

Carlisle had also shared with me the conversation he'd had with Emmett in the hospital—his previously hidden jealousy of Edward, and his fear that we were only proud of his sports accomplishments because of their potential to pay his way through college. I was just horrified when I heard that. And in light of what happened with Bella, I wondered: was there a single one of my kids I hadn't let down lately?

After dinner Carlisle proposed a family game of Monopoly, and Jasper helped Alice clean up the kitchen so we could get to the game faster. Then he and Rose stayed in the kitchen getting everyone drinks while Carlisle helped Emmett get settled on the couch.

"How the heck am I supposed to play?" he grumbled as he tried to find a comfortable position on his side. "I can't see the board. I can't even reach it on this side, much less the far side."

"I'll move your piece and tell you what you land on. You just lie there and give orders," Alice chirped. Alice loved being in charge, and the only thing that would have made her happier was to actually decide Emmett's moves for him.

"Because you're my sister, I'm not even going to respond to that."

"I should hope not, sister or otherwise," Carlisle replied, sitting down next to Bella. He didn't appreciate that kind of humor from our boys, though he usually didn't say anything if they teased each other. He never tolerated it when it was directed towards the girls, though.

Bella always looked a little lost when we had family time after dinner, sitting awkwardly and taking her cues from everyone else. So when first Alice and then Edward dug their tokens out from the box, she reached in and took out the first one her hand touched.

"Wait, Bella, the thimble is Mom's," Edward told her. "Because she sews all the time. We all have our special tokens. The only one left is the iron, but you can trade with me if you don't like it." I was very surprised to hear him say that. Edward had had almost the first pick six years ago, and his token was the Scottie dog. He loved that little Scottie. But now he was offering it up to Bella like it meant nothing.

"No, the iron is fine. I'm sorry," Bella said, quickly putting the thimble back. "I didn't know everyone had one."

Carlisle came to her rescue. "_Almost_ everyone. That iron's been waiting a long time for someone to claim it," he said.

While Alice doled out starter money and Jasper and Rose came back in with the tray of drinks, Carlisle lowered his voice and added teasingly, "A lot of games are for up to eight players, so you've made us a complete set. If any more kids show up we'll have to start using chess pieces. You came in just under the wire."

Bella pressed her hands to her mouth and giggled, and any little bit of tension there might have been about the thimble was gone just like that. But that was Carlisle for you, that charisma of his. Who else could get six teenagers to participate in a family game night? He was the one who held us together, no doubt about it.

* * *

Bedtime came and Carlisle and I began making our rounds, each visiting different rooms at once so all the kids got to talk to both of us for a few minutes. I had caught Alice after dinner and asked her if she could arrange to be out of the room when I first came in. Easygoing as always, Alice didn't disappoint me, and Bella was alone when I went into the girls' room a few minutes before ten.

Bella sat propped up against her pillows with a book in her hands. She looked up expectantly when I came in the room, but then her face fell when she saw who it was. I tried not to feel hurt. I knew she wanted Carlisle.

"Hey, sweetie," I said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Bella stared down at the book clenched in her hands and said nothing.

I popped open the top of the plastic box I'd brought with me turned it so Bella could see inside. "I put this together for you so you can keep it under your bed," I said. Stirring the contents a little with my hand, I continued, "There're bags of granola and dried fruit, and some yogurt-covered peanuts. They don't need to be refrigerated. Now if you get hungry in the night you won't have to go downstairs. You just keep refilling it anytime it gets low."

Bella looked at the food but still didn't say anything. I sighed.

"Bella, I know I hurt you very badly, and I'm sorry for that. I felt like I must not be taking good care of my kids if any of you felt you had to hoard food. It wasn't right for me to lash out at you. I hope you can forgive me, honey." Hoping she wouldn't yank it away, I reached out to stroke her arm. "I hope we can start over, because I love having you here with us. Everyone loves having you here."

Bella's brow furrowed as she thought for a while. But she didn't pull her arm away. "Not everyone likes it that I'm here," she finally muttered.

Rosalie. I should have known. I'd had a feeling Rose might be jealous when we brought Bella to live here. Even though we had begun the adoption process and assured the twins that they'd be adopted even if we had to wait until they turned eighteen to avoid a legal battle with their biological mother, Rose still believed we were looking for any excuse to kick her and Jasper to the curb. I wasn't very surprised that she'd been hostile toward Bella.

Well, at least Bella was talking to me. "I'm sorry if anyone's been cold to you, hon," I said. "Sometimes people get jealous when they feel vulnerable. But Carlisle and I are thrilled to have you, and I know Alice and Edward, at least, have really bonded with you."

Bella flinched when I said that, and I wondered why. Alice had been all about Bella ever since she came—really, before she'd even arrived—and Edward surprised me with how much he'd taken to her. Not that Edward was the jealous type, or cold, but he tended to be moody and was very selfish about his free time and his music. Yet he'd been giving Bella lessons, of all things, and on his mother's piano, not the plain upright we kept in the living room for the whole family. From almost her very first day here. Even Carlisle had scratched his head over it. And then he'd offered her his Scottie token earlier. For keeps, not just for tonight. I wondered if there might be a little crush going on there.

"If someone's been making you feel unwelcome, you can tell me. I really wish you would, because then I can talk to them and find out why they feel threatened."

Bella shrugged impatiently, closing her book and dropping it on her nightstand. "It's nothing. It doesn't matter."

I decided not to press the issue, since it obviously made her uncomfortable. So I just smiled at Bella and stroked her arm again. On her nightstand, next to the book she'd just placed there, I noticed something shiny glinting through the clear sides of her Brita pitcher. Carlisle kept that there for her so she could have a drink without having to crutch all the way downstairs or swallow weird-tasting bathroom water. I moved the pitcher aside, and there was the little iron token from the Monopoly set.

"What's this about?" I said with a little laugh, picking it up. Bella blushed and looked away from me at the wall. I had a sudden flash of understanding. "It's because of what Carlisle said about the set, isn't it?" I said knowingly. My heart ached, thinking how desperate Bella must be for a family if even that chance remark meant so much to her. I placed the little iron back on the night table. "Well, you keep that here, then. It's yours. No one else is going to use it."

Bella stared at the tiny token, and I saw the ghost of a smile on her face. This was just the kind of moment I was thinking of when I said Carlisle had a gift. Other adults didn't understand how much an inconsequential thing like this _meant_ to a child who had nothing else to hold on to. He did. He just knew, on some level, exactly what they were going through, and what little things he could do to bring them one step closer to feeling safe.

My husband was only human and could lose his temper once in a while like anyone else, but never because one of our kids had a relapse or was 'taking too long' to get past some emotional roadblock. One of the reasons foster parents, particularly novice ones, often 'dumped' kids after a short period of time was because they didn't have the empathy or the patience to wait out the years-long healing process. Carlisle and I had had to stop going to the parents' support group meetings so often because of how upset he'd get with the others.

"What the fuck did they think they'd be doing, going to the goddamn Cabbage Patch and picking the prettiest kid to take home?" he'd fumed one night on the drive home. Since Carlisle hardly ever swore aside from the mild ones like _hell_ or _damn,_ it was obvious he was really pissed off. He'd gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. "They thought they'd play Santa to some poor kid like one of Dickens's orphans and never hear a word of complaint or actually have to actually be a _parent?_"

It had been a particularly bad evening, with Carlisle just about coming to blows with a fat, placid older man who'd whined (literally, he'd sounded like a toddler asking _why_) because his foster son had 'repaid them for their kindness' by getting arrested for shoplifting. Carlisle had scared me that night, partly because I have trouble seeing anyone angry and not being afraid they'd turn it on _me_ any second, but also because I wondered if he thought of me that way sometimes. It hadn't been my plan to be a foster parent, and in fact it took him a long while to get me to agree to do it. I'd still been grieving for our baby son and feeling like a failure because I hadn't been able to give him a child. I wanted to mourn for a while, then hopefully try one more time to get pregnant.

But Carlisle had worked on me a little bit at a time, and finally I'd let go of my resistance. I agreed with him that it was better for us to share our lives with kids who'd been left alone through no fault of their own. And once I'd taken that step, he didn't have much to do to convince me that we could do the most good with older kids, kids who got passed over because other parents wanted babies or very young children. I think I actually fell in love with my husband all over again when he'd shared that dream with me, feeling (as I often did) that I didn't deserve such an incredible man.

Now my fear was that Carlisle saw all my mistakes, remembered that I'd been reluctant to consider fostering years ago, and concluded that he had pushed me into something I wasn't prepared for. I really _wasn't_ prepared on some levels, and I had my own demons which Carlisle constantly helped me to struggle against. He was the glue that held this family together. I wasn't his partner. I was just an extra hundred and twenty pounds for him to carry as he balanced the world on his shoulders.

I squeezed Bella's hand once more and let go. "I'll just slide this under the bed for you, baby, so you can reach it easily," I said, leaning down to lift the dust ruffle and placing the container of food just beyond it. I stood up and gave her a smile. "Carlisle should be in any minute. 'Night, Bella."

"'Night." She even looked at me when she said it, which I thought was a good sign. Bella might just forgive me if I made sure to be extra patient around her for a while. I wasn't going to mess up with her again.

I finished making my rounds of all the kids' bedrooms, chasing Alice out of the boys' room where she'd set up camp on Emmett's bed, and was sitting at my vanity table brushing my hair when Carlisle came in. He smiled at me in the mirror and took the brush out of my hand, taking over the brushing in slow, firm strokes. I loved having my hair tugged and played with. It was one of the most relaxing feelings in the world.

"Will Emmett go back to school on Monday?" I asked drowsily, stifling a yawn. The day had caught up to me and was digging its claws in with a vengeance. "I told Bella and Jasper definitely, but I didn't know what to say to Em."

"It's possible. Jasper could have been back by now if he didn't already have so much trouble concentrating, and Bella's only still home because it's a new school for her and it's been chaos around here. Em would need a wheelchair, and he's still in a lot of pain even with medication. I'll have to see how he looks in a few days." Carlisle put the brush down and gave my hair a playful tug. "Come on to bed."

"I still have to set Bella up with a therapist," I said, feeling that familiar sense of being overwhelmed with all the things I had to get done. "I don't know what to do, Carlisle. The only one close to here who's taking new patients is a man, and I don't know how Bella's going to feel about that."

"Did you ask her?"

"I didn't have a chance," I reminded him. "This morning I mentioned it while I was explaining that phone call, remember? But at that point it wasn't a question. I'll ask tomorrow. But I'm afraid now that she knows how difficult it's been to find one the state approves of, she'll say yes just so she won't be a burden. I don't know. I guess I'll start calling ones who aren't on the list. Thank God we don't _have_ to take what the state gives us just because it's free."

"You might be surprised," Carlisle said. "Bella might actually prefer a man, depending. She's told me things . . . it's hard to explain. It's just a feeling I get. Maybe it's because her mother left and she spent all that time with just her dad, but I think Bella feels better with men. If they're kind, of course," he added. "She doesn't seem to think any of her foster mothers liked her or really wanted her for more than her check. But she doesn't have as much to say about the fathers."

I felt sad. Was I another one of those mothers Bella didn't trust? Even before I'd screwed up last weekend, had she felt like I was just interested in her for the extra money? That reminded me that Carlisle was the one Bella had overheard complaining about how long her check was taking. Well, indirectly. He'd really just been comparing Douches' slow-as-molasses system to the ridiculous please-return-this-by-six-days-ago timelines they sometimes gave us. But Bella had assumed it was all about her. Yet I'd hurt her much more directly, and in the end, she resented me and not Carlisle.

"I'll talk to her tomorrow," I said wearily, kicking off the soft leather mules I wore around the house and tossing my cardigan on the chaise. "We'll see how it works out." The whole day and all its emotions had left me exhausted, and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and let my mind finally shut off. Thank goodness Carlisle wasn't being cold with me, even if I still felt a little bit stiff around him, afraid to say the wrong thing and yet not wanting to have to tiptoe around my own husband, the way I'd always had to with first my father and then Charles. But I would be glad for Carlisle's presence next to me while I drifted off to sleep. At least he never played sick mind games like refusing to talk or leaving me alone in bed to show his displeasure.

But no sooner had I snapped off my bedside light than my husband was pulling me backwards toward him and slipping a hand playfully between my thighs. Most nights I would be thrilled that he had the energy for lovemaking despite our hectic schedules. But tonight? I seriously could have slapped him. Was he really ready to make love after the day we'd had? Didn't he understand that I was too vulnerable right now?

If I told him no, he'd stop. But what would he be thinking? That I was being petty because of our argument this morning? That the least I could do after staying home all day while he worked at an emotionally draining job was give him a little relief? I didn't want to be that person.

So I gritted my teeth and let Carlisle take what he needed, even though I was fighting back tears the whole time and wishing I could go just go three days at a stretch without feeling like a miserable waste of space.


End file.
